The Steele Who Stole Christmas
by RSteele82
Summary: (An ITCHy Story) Eighteen month after their faux wedding upon the fishing trawler in Bonds of Steele, those three words have been said, and Laura and Remington have been cohabitating for eighteen months. After Abigail wins and all expense trip for eight to New York City for the holidays, Laura and Remington's plans for the holiday are hijacked.
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: Merry Christmas Eve, one and all. The Steele Who Stole Christmas is a three part story, which also happens to be the second of your three Christmas treats this year. I hope you enjoy!_**

 ** _Eighteen month after their faux wedding upon the fishing trawler in Bonds of Steele, those three words have been said, and Laura and Remington have been cohabitating for eighteen months. After Abigail wins and all expense trip for eight to New York City for the holidays, Laura and Remington's plans for the holiday are hijacked._**

* * *

 _1987_

"Abigail!" Remington greeted jovially when he picked up the phone and heard the voice of his mother-in-law on the other side of the line. From the other end of the couch, Laura was already gesticulating that she was not there, that she was _anywhere_ but there until this particular phone call ended. The wink he sent her was met by a glare. _Damn him._ It was a crap shoot, when her Mother called, whether Remington would play her guardian angel and honor her wishes or if he'd have a bit of the devil him – like today, apparently – and he'd sell her out with a smile on his handsome face. "Laura? Sitting right next to me, as a matter of fact." Laura rendered her opinion on his betrayal by sticking out her tongue at him. "It concerns both of us, you say?" he asked with a lift of his brows in Laura's direction. "Yes, of course. I'll stay right here… Okay. Bye-bye. Here's Laura." Steeling herself, Laura took the phone from his hand.

"Hello, Mother," she greeted, staunchly.

"Laura," Abigail returned. "How have you been?"

"Fine, Mother. And yourself?" she replied with forced politeness.

"Much better, thank you for asking." Laura frowned.

"Better?" she wondered.

"Yes," Abigail confirmed. "That nasty little bout of pneumonia I had over Thanksgiving is just about gone now.." She coughed a ladylike cough for effect. Laura rolled her eyes heavenwards "Of course, had you called me over the holiday you'd have known." The eye roll became a grimace. She'd walked blindly into that trap and hadn't recognized she'd done so before she was snared.

"I'm sorry, Mother," she apologized, as expected. "I meant to call, time just got away from me." It was an outright lie: She'd avoided calling her mother like most people avoided the Hare Krishna selling flowers in the airport. _Oh, no_. Her eyes flickered to Remington, then away, when she found a pair of narrowed, piercing blue eyes peering back at her. _Damn, damn, damn, damn._ Even from the limited amount he'd heard, he'd caught on that she'd lied to him as well: She hadn't called her mother on Thanksgiving as she'd inferred that she had. She peeked at him again, noted the amused purse of his lips and cocky lift of his brow. _Damn_. Her deception hadn't been revealed by the phone call - how long had he known? - and tossing her to the wolves a minute ago – wolves in the form of her mother – was his perverted way of making her pay for that bit of dishonesty. _Damn_. She hated when he had one up on her—and knew it.

"….Now I know in the odd years I normally come to Los Angeles for Christmas," Abigail rattled on. Laura blinked. What exactly had she missed?" "But Frances and I agreed this was just too good of an opportunity to miss, so—"

"I'm sorry," Laura interrupted, "We must have had a bad connection for a second…." What's one more fib, she justified "….What opportunity?"

"Why the trip that I won at the church raffle, dear," Abigail answered. Laura searched her memory. No, she hadn't registered anything about a trip. How long hadn't she been paying attention? A glance at Remington revealed the laughter in his eyes. Alright, so she'd checked out of the conversation, as she often did, and he'd noticed. "An all inclusive trip to spend Christmas through New Years in New York City!" Laura resisted the urge to get up and dance, although she couldn't stop the wide smile that split her face. A Christmas without her mother's needling, her criticisms, her pointed remarks… Her constant queries about whether she and Remington were considering a more permanent arrangement because….

"You aren't getting any younger, Laura…"

"I agree with Frances, Mother. It's too good of an opportunity to pass up…." She could have sworn she heard a chorus of Angels sing out 'Hallelujah' "And we'll always have Christmas next year. I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time."

"Not just me, Laura, all of us," Abigail corrected as Laura nudged Remington's leg with her foot and mouthed 'Mother's not coming for Christmas.' "It couldn't have been more perfect: A trip for eight. Four rooms at _The Plaza_ from December twenty-second until January second. You just have to see the itinerary, Laura. A Christmas Eve performance of _The Nutcracker,_ a Broadway show, dinners at—" Caught up in her thoughts of a Mother-less Christmas, Laura only now caught on to the pronoun her mother had used when she'd begun speaking.

"Wait…. Wait. All of us? All of us as in who?" she asked.

"It's a trip for eight, Laura," Abigail reminded in a tone suggesting Laura was suddenly dull-witted. Her daughter's lips thinned and shoulder's straightened in response. "Why Frances, Donald and the children, you and Remington and myself of—"

"Remington and I can't go to New York for ten days, Mother," Laura cut in again, aghast. Across from her on the couch, Remington's ears perked up. _Oh no, no, no, no. Not happening._ She gave him a look that clearly said he shouldn't bother getting his hopes up. "In case you've forgotten, we have a business to run."

"I know Remington's a man in great demand, dear. We're all so very proud of what he's done with that Agency of his," Laura reached for her temple as that all too familiar headache that arrived with her mother began creeping up on her. "But when Frances said Remington had decided to close the Agency for three weeks to give everyone some much needed time to relax, the timing couldn't have been more perfect!" Laura nearly groaned aloud at the last. When she saw her sister next, she was going to wring her neck.

"Well, yes, we did decide to close the Agency," she enunciated the 'we', "But Remington and I have reservations in Aspen—"

"We can always cancel," Remington offered, not so helpfully.

"I don't want to cancel the reservations," she told him in the cross yet sullen tone used solely in her mother's presence. "I want to go skiing."

"But New York City, Laura," he replied with a dreamy tone to his voice. "Just think about it. We could do all the things we didn't find time for while we were there for Bernice's wedding. Ice Skating at Rockefeller Center—"

"You don't skate," she pointed out.

"No, but I would certainly enjoy watching you," he quickly rebutted. "A trip to Tiffany's, The Empire State Building, fifty-second and Lexington—" The last had her sitting at full attention.

"There's an itinerary, Mr. Steele," she informed him, bursting his bubble, then purely for petulance's sake added, "It's a Christmas trip, not a trip to the movies."

"Macy's on Fifth Avenue, then," he countered, enthusiastically. " _Miracle on 34_ _th_ _Street._ Maureen O'Hara, John Payne, Edmund Gwenn, Natalie Wood, Twentieth Century Fox, 1947. Wonderful cast, inspirational movie. An elderly man is hired to fulfill the role of Santa Claus at Ma—"

"I'm familiar with the movie, Mr. Steele," Laura interrupted, drily.

"Well, then you should know one can't get more… uh… 'Christmasy' than that," he defended.

"A private cabin, a large tree set to the side of the fireplace, snow falling beyond frosted window panes, and classic Christmas songs playing softly in the background," she countered, then upped the ante for his creative imagination, "Us on Christmas morning, stretched out before a roaring fire, mugs of hot cider in hand, as we…" she ran a hungry look over him from head to toe, "…open our…" she looked him in the eyes "…gifts." He swallowed hard as he envisioned them making love in front of that roaring fire with the Christmas tree twinkling nearby. She was prepared to do a triumphant jig in the middle of the living room, when he spoke.

"It's family, Laura." Three words. Three… damning… words… from the man who'd never had the family he'd wanted and was therefore unable to deny _hers_ anything. She scrunched her face, remorsefully, as she didn't have it _in her_ to deny him something that meant so much to him. She closed her eyes and forced the dreaded words past her lips.

"Alright, Mother, it looks like it'll be Christmas in New York…"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 _December 21, 1987_

Remington removed a tux and a pair of suits from the bedroom closet and placidly crossed the room to the bed, where he carefully arranged the clothing inside the garment bag he'd laid out. Standing next to the bed, Laura huffed in frustration.

"It's never all going to fit," she groused, staring at a pair of suitcases and a second garment bag spread out on the bed. His eyes flicked to the three still empty pieces of luggage.

"You'll never know unless you try," he suggested, logically, returning to the closet to gather a trio of dress shirts.

"I don't need to try to know," she snapped. "I'll need an entire suitcase for the presents alone."

"The hazards of Christmas shopping in August," he quipped, flashing his pearly whites at her as he added shirts to garment bag.

"As opposed to shopping on Christmas Eve?" she retorted, referring to the Christmas two years prior when he'd waited until the last minute to buy her present. Of course, said present had never materialized given they'd been held hostage by three Santas and one deranged flower child. He had the decency to wince at the reminder. Clearing his throat, he leaned back on the heels of his feet and patted his chest a pair of times.

"I'm a reformed man, Miss Holt," he riposted with a wide smile. "All my shopping is done at least a week in advance these days". A roll of her eyes rendered her opinion on his claim before she returned her attention to the problem at hand.

"I'm going to need another suitcase," she announced, resignedly. Pausing in his packing, he approached the stacks of presents positioned on the small table and two chairs that acted as a seating area in his bedroom.

"Surely you don't need to take all of these with you," he observed, sorting through a stack that seemed mostly for him. "We could always leave our presents for one another here and open them when we return." She frowned at the mere suggestion then turned to the closet and on her tiptoes grabbed the handle of an empty suitcase from the shelf, hauling it down.

"Not happening, Mr. Steele," she dismissed. "We've already had to give up our plans to spend New Years in Aspen for this little surprise of Mother's. She won't steal Christmas morning as well." She plopped the bag on the bed and began to unzip.

"Steal's a bit harsh, don't you think?" he rejoined, amused. "You're speaking as though she's the green fellow from that cartoon you forced me to watch in the name of 'holiday classics.'"

"I'll have you know, _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,_ is one the most beloved holiday shows ever," she admonished. The image of her mother as the Grinch amused her, and she turned her head to give him a pert smile. "And if the small, cold Christmas heart fits—"

"Lau-ra," he admonished with a drawl of her name. She widened her eyes in feigned innocence.

"What?"

"I hardly think gifting the entire family with a trip to New York for the holidays is a malevolent act."

"That depends on whose shoes you're standing in, Mr. Steele," she replied with a crinkle of her nose. "Mother adores _you_." He smiled wide at the accusation. He rather enjoyed how Abigail fawned all over him. He did some throat clearing again and vanquished that smile in answer to the scowl she leveled on him.

"It's a bit obscene, don't you think?" he proposed. "Three suitcases and a pair each of garment and overnight bags for a ten day trip?" She pretended to consider what he'd said.

"Four suitcases," she corrected.

"Four?" he repeated, dumbfounded.

"Unless you intend on shoving your nightclothes, underwear and other clothing into a paper bag." The look on his face suggested she'd lost her mind. Remington Steele was nothing short of fastidious about the care of his clothing, and God forbid should a shirt be wrinkled because it wasn't properly packed.

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," he chastised. "Imagine the damage to my reputation should Remington Steele be caught travelling such." She smiled triumphantly while plucking the keys to the Rabbit off the bedside table and tossing them to him.

"You better get shopping then." The directive stumped him, momentarily, until his eyes traveled to the closet which was now devoid of additional luggage.

"Don't you think it would be more sensible to leave our gifts to each other here?" he asked, appealing to her logical side.

"Not happening," she firmly repeated her earlier response to that suggestion.

"But, Laura," his appeal bordered on a whine. She looked pointedly at her watch.

"It's seven-fifty, and most stores close by nine." When he remained standing in place staring at her in disbelief, she lifted a pair of manicured brows at him. "Or…" she drew out the word "I believe we have a paper bag in the kitchen from your trip to the market."

Open mouthed, he shook his head at her a pair of times, then turned on his heel and left the bedroom. She listened as he muttered a string of complaints and epitaphs under his breath until the front door open and closed behind him.

With a wide smile on her face, she returned to packing.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 _December 22, 1987_

Laura, Remington and the Piper family arrived en masse at The Plaza, after having shared to same flight to New York. Mindy and Danny were still chattering with excitement over having traveled first class for the first time, while Laurie Beth dozed with her head on Donald's shoulder, the day of travel proving wearisome for the seven-year old.

"It looks like a castle!" Mindy announced with awe as the group stepped into the lobby.

"Man-o-man," Danny commented in a similarly dazed fashion, "I've never seen anything like it except on those old movies Mr. Remington likes!" Remington smiled back at the lad. The boy had a good memory for details. Laura and he had spent the Fourth of July with the Piper clan. While the women cleaned the kitchen, at Frances' insistence, their male counterparts had retired to the family room. An airing of _North by Northwest_ had proved to be the perfect time filler between dinner and departing for fireworks. He found a great deal of amusement that the boy had associated the lobby with a movie, whereas Laura had yet to do the same – despite having seen the movie a dozen times with him by now.

" _North by Northwest_ , actually," he commended, reaching back to tousle the boy's hair, drawing Laura's eyes from where she'd spotted Abigail sitting in a wingchair, impatiently swinging a leg as she awaited the arrival of her family.

"Mother!" Frances called, waving in Abigail's direction, having spotted her as well. Laura cringed, even as she directed her attention to Remington.

" _North by Northwest,_ what?" she asked. Had he seen something suspicious? A chill raced up her spine _. If we happen to stumble across a case, this trip might just be salvageable, after all,_ she mused silently.

"Cary Grant, Eva Marie Saint, James Mason, MGM, 1959," he rattled off, absently, while peering around the enormous space. "Grant plays an advertising executive—"

"Funny, I don't see a cornfield or crop duster in sight," she interrupted, sarcastically, "Get to the point, Mr. Steele."

"Frances, darling," Abigail greeted her oldest daughter warmly, embracing her in a hug.

"Grant filmed a scene for _North by Northwest_ in this very lobby," Remington explained. His star struck smile inspired a roll of her eyes; that they hadn't stumbled across a case made her shoulders sag. He'd taken two steps away, when she reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going?" she hissed.

"I just want to have a closer look at—"

"You're not going anywhere, buster," she informed him. "You dragged me here for Christmas, you're not abandoning me to deal with my mother alone."

"I didn't drag you," he countered, "I merely reminded you this trip is about family."

"You see it your way, and I see it mine," she reported sotto voice, as she watched her mother finish her greetings of the Piper clan and turn to them.

"Remington, such a pleasure to see you again," Abigail oozed, as he leaned down and dutifully bussed her on the cheek. "I was just telling the ladies at canasta how fortunate Laura is to have you." Laura's face pinched at what her mother was implying, then forced a smile for her mother's benefit when Abigail focused her attention on her youngest daughter.

"Laura, darling," Abigail greeted, in a considerably cooler tone than she'd used on the Pipers and Remington.

"Hello, Mother," Laura greeted, pressing a perfunctory kiss to Abigail's cheek.

"You're looking well. I imagine you're being spoiled by Remington's cooking," Abigail commented. Laura's back straightened noticeably. "I'm glad he convinced you to join your family for the holidays."

"Perhaps we should check-in," Remington quickly suggested, slipping an arm around Laura's waist and giving it a gentle squeeze of support.

"I checked us all in when I arrived," Abigail shared. Removing her purse from her shoulder, she removed three keys. "Donald, dear, your rooms are on the seventh floor next to mine: One of for the children, and one for yourself and Frances, adjoining of course." She handed Donald a pair of keys, then turned and offered the last key to Remington. "There was a mix up on the reservations, and this is all they had left," she apologized. "I wanted us all together, of course, but since we can't be, we can't very well separate Frances and Donald from the children." Beneath his hand, he felt some of Laura's tension ease at the announcement. Repositioning his hand, he stroked the small of her back with his thumb.

"I'm sure it will more than suffice," he assured the woman, graciously.

"Then we'll meet back here in the lobby at five," Abigail directed, as she led the group, with bellhops following, towards the elevator. "Tonight is more about the New York experience for the children than it is the adults: Dinner at Joe's Pizzeria followed by ice skating at Rockefeller Center."

"Pizza?" Laurie Beth perked up at the word, while Remington depressed the 'up button' on two separate elevator cars.

"Pepperoni!" Danny quickly voted.

"Nuh-uh!" Mindy objected, passionately. "Sausage!"

"Pineapple," Laurie Beth yawned, lying her head back down on her father's shoulder.

"Now, children, no arguing over toppings, please," Frances admonished.

"But I never get sausage," Mindy complained as the door to the first set of elevators slid open.

"By all means," Remington indicated Abigail and the Pipers should take the first car."

"Now, Mindy, you know your father and Danny both like pepperoni, and poor Laurie Beth will go hungry if we don't get pineapple," Frances explained for the umpteenth time.

"It's not fair!"

As the door to the elevator slid closed, the pizza debate waged on. Once the floor indicator confirmed the elevator was in motion, Laura turned to Remington and, leaning her forehead against his chest, let out a long breath as the tension eased from her frame. Resting his head briefly on the top of her head, he rubbed both of her arms.

"That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

Her only answer was another, long sigh.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

It was rare that anything shocked the hell out of Laura Holt, but when the bellhop swept open the door to their room, the sight before her did exactly that. The expansive room offered coffered ceilings, plush carpeting and floor to ceiling windows.

"The penthouse?" she asked no one in particular. "Their only available option was the penthouse?" She looked at Remington who seemed equally impressed by the posh accommodations – also hard to do as he was a man with very high standards.

"I imagine there are not many willing to spend what this place must go for a night," he suggested. He tucked his hands behind his back, and walked around the main living area, inspecting it.

"It's two stories?" she asked, surprised to see the ornately decorated stairway. Her focus was immediately stolen by an object beyond. "We have a tree," she commented, reverently as she examined the beautiful decoration that soared at least twelve feet tall.

"And a fireplace," he nodded towards the object.

"The master?" the bellhop called to Remington. He turned and looked at the luggage as though surprised to see it there. "Yes, yes, the master," he agreed. Returning his attention to the room, he fingered back a sheer to peek outside. "Come see this, love." Laura slanted a smile in his direction. He'd taken to the endearment at Ashford Castle, and while used frequently since then, it still warmed her heart each time he used it. Crossing the room, she stepped in front of him and peered out the opening.

"A terrace?"

"With room enough to easily entertain a dozen people," he noted.

They toured the downstairs bedroom and bath, then returned to the living room where the bellhop was awaiting them. Remington gave the man a healthy tip, then once he door had closed behind bellhop and luggage cart, looked towards the staircase with a suggestive lift of his brows.

"Shall we have a look upstairs?"

"By all means," she agreed, and preceded him up the stairs.

* * *

Remington turned off the faucet in the shower, and opening the door stepped out of the glass enclosure. After a quick scrubbing at his hair with the thick towel, he watched Laura where she stood in front of the vanity in a pair of scant white lace and silk panties and matching bra. Her eyes on the mirror she twisted from one side to the other, then spun a hundred-eighty degrees and looked back over her shoulder at her image.

"Dare, I ask?" he inquired as he pulled a second towel from the rack and hung it around his neck. She glanced at him, then turned to her side and examined her image some more. Sure, she'd gained few pounds since she and Remington had moved in together, but in the weeks immediately after the fiasco of finding Remington at the altar with the hooker, she'd been uninterested in food and had shed an unhealthy amount of weight. She still ran regularly, although she'd stopped training for the triathlons and hadn't been working out at the barre. Except for a couple shirts and a few pairs of slacks, her clothes still fit fine. She ran a hand over her tummy. Was it thicker now? She wasn't an overly vain woman, but staying in shape and keeping her body at peak performance was imperative for her job.

"Am I getting fat?" He couldn't suppress the bark of laughter that crossed his lips.

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," he dismissed, as he joined her at the sink, "A good breeze would blow you away." In fact, he'd found himself a bit intimidated the first time they'd made love, for no matter that he'd admired her petite frame for years, when her nude form had lain beneath his, he'd felt positively gargantuan. "Why would you even ask such a thing?"

"You heard what Mother said," she sighed, then turned her back to him to assess her tummy from the opposite side. He frowned at the back of her head. What had he missed? He'd been standing right there. He rewound the brief conversation between him, Laura and Abigail in his head. He chuckled softly when his mind clicked on what she meant.

"It was a compliment to me, not a commentary on your weight." She shook her head, still examining herself.

"She may be right. I've had to replace several items of clothing lately." The surreal conversation was a potent reminder of how easily Laura's mother could get inside her head and shake her confidence. He stepped up behind her, and eased an arm around her waist.

"I assure you, Miss Holt," he told her, while easing a fall of hair over her shoulder, "You've only grown lovelier with each passing year." He pursed his lips and smiled comically at her reflection in the mirror. "Well, except, perhaps for that brief time period after those…" he made a motion near his forehead "…bangs." She snorted a horrified laugh.

"They were awful, weren't they?" He feigned a shiver.

"Hideous," he agreed, unconsciously swaying with her, "Yet even then, I've never wanted a woman more."

"Aren't you the sweet talker?" she commented, drily, although his words assuaged the self-confidence her mother had dinged. "And I suppose if I were to get fat…" He nuzzled her neck with his face, the rested his lips near her ear.

"You might be surprised by the number of fantasies I've enjoyed of you, rotund…" He pressed his lips to her neck "…Although not due to any activities in the kitchen."

Releasing her, he patted her bottom playfully a pair of times, then left the bathroom…

Leaving her standing, stunned, wondering if he'd meant what she thought he had.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 _December 24, 1987_

It had been a busy two days since the Holt Family and Remington had arrived in New York City. On Tuesday evening, the family had indulged in true New York style pizza at Joes on Bleecker Street, then afterwards the children and Laura had enjoyed ice skating at Rockefeller Center. On Wednesday morning, they'd been roused before nine by the incessant ringing for the telephone beside the bed. Abigail would accept no excuses, and Laura spent the entirety of the morning and well into the noon hour accompanying mother and sister as they did some last minute Christmas shopping, while Remington and Donald stayed behind with the children. That afternoon there was matinee performance of _Annie_ for the children, followed by dinner for the adults at Tavern on the Green.

When that same bedside phone had begun shrieking on Christmas Eve morning, much as it had the day prior, Laura muttered an epitaph Remington had rarely heard pass her lips. A pair of sleep bleary blue eyes popped open and watched as she blindly reached for the telephone, her eyes still closed.

"'Lo," she mumbled into the receiver. When she stiffened in Remington's embrace, he needn't ask who it was calling.

"You may be on vacation, Laura, but not from manners," Abigail chastised. Laura elbowed Remington to move and they rolled simultaneously, she to her back, he to his stomach.

"Good morning, Mother," she corrected herself automatically.

"Laura, Frances and I have the most wonderful surprise planned for the children today: A visit to see Santa for Laurie Beth and a short trip to the American Museum of Natural History for Danny this morning. Gray's Papaya for lunch – The concierge insists they serve the best hot dogs in the country and you know how the children enjoy hot dogs. Then this afternoon a visit to FAO Schwartz for Mindy. I'm sure we'll all have a wonderful time."

"I'm sure the children will enjoy it, Mother," Laura replied politely, closing her eyes and blocking out the light in the room with the palm of a hand over her eyes, determined she'd go back to sleep once she got her mother off the phone.

"I'm sure we all will," Abigail corrected. "I know it's not quite the thing for the adults, but—" Laura dropped her hand from her eyes and lunged up to a sitting position.

"I'm sorry, Mother, but given the itinerary for the day showed we had it free, Mr. Steele and I have made plans." _Oh, ho, there is no way I'm letting us getting roped into this one,_ she silently vowed.

"We've already told the children everyone would be coming. They'll be terribly disappointed," Abigail replied in a tone that suggested Laura was being selfish.

"Well, I'm sorry if they'll be disappointed, but these are plan that can't be changed," she informed her mother firmly.

"As far as I know, the only thing that can't be changed in life is death," Abigail retorted, clearly irritated by Laura's lack of cooperation. "Now, tell me your plans and let's—"

"I can't say," Laura cut her off, then played the card Abigail could never resist. "It's a surprise for Remington." The eyes of the man beside her popped open with interest. "He's been so… accommodating… about giving up our plans in Aspen for my family," she buttered her mother up, "I'm sure you have to agree he's _more_ than earned an afternoon with just him in mind."

"Well, why didn't you just say so to begin with dear," Abigail scolded, drawing an unseen roll of her daughter's eyes, "Given how much Remington does for you and how rarely you put him first," Laura went slack jaw and gesticulated her frustration, "I wouldn't want to spoil it for him."

"Mother, I have to go. We'll see you at six." She was nearly in the clear or so she thought. She only had to wait for her mother to say goodbye, then she could try to forget this call had ever happened.

"You mean four, don't you, dear?"

"No, Mother. We agreed to meet here in our room at six to leave for dinner before the ballet," Laura corrected.

"Well, Remington and I did speak after you went to bed, so it's understandable he hasn't had the chance to tell you yet." Laura's head snapped in said man's direction, and she glared down at him.

"Oh, you did, did you?" she asked, not bothering to disguise her irritation. Hearing the tone, Remington decided it might be wise to start his day and his quick glance at Laura before rolling out of bed confirmed that decision was wise. "What exactly did you speak about?"

"The children had asked if we were still going to do presents on Christmas Eve. It's been a family tradition since you and Frances were children, after all. So when Remington volunteered the use of your suite given you have a tree whereas the rest of us don't, he—"

"He offered to have Christmas here," Laura surmised. Remington hurriedly shrugged on his robe as she shot darts at him with her eyes.

"I hope you know how fortunate you are, dear. Remington is such a kind and generous man."

"Oh, he's _something else_ , alright," Laura pretended to agree, her mother oblivious to the edge of sarcasm in her voice. He dared to flash his pearly whites in her direction, having accurately assessed Abigail was singing his praises. Picking up a pillow from the bed, Laura slung it, pegging him in the back of the head before he could make his escape to the bathroom. With a small shake of her head, she forced herself to focus on whatever Abigail was saying about Santa Claus. "I'm sorry, Mother, what were you saying about Santa Claus?"

"I said," Abigail began in the disapproving voice, "Little Laurie Beth is beside herself, convinced Santa Claus won't be able to visit her this evening because she's away from home."

"So, tell her Santa knows where every child is, home or away," Laura suggested absently. She and her Mr. Steele needed to have a little chat.

"Honestly, Laura, did you listen to anything I said at all?" Abigail retorted, irritably. "We tried, but then she went on to point out we have no tree, no chimney and she's absolutely convinced that Santa doesn't bring presents unless he has a tree to put them under, and he can't very well just roam the halls of the hotel delivering children their gifts." A mischievous smile lifted Laura's lips. Since Remington was so determined to play family man, she'd give him family – in abundance.

"You know, Mother, the second bedroom in our suite has two full-sized beds and we do have a fireplace," she suggested. "Frances and Donald could take one bed, the girls the other, and Danny I'm sure could survive on night on the floor, and if not, there's always the sofa."

"It's lovely gesture, dear," Abigail complimented. Laura's brief smile at the rare praise rapidly turned into a frown at her mother's next words, "But before we get poor Laurie Beth's hopes up, I think you need to discuss it with Remington and make sure it's alright with him."

"I don't need Remington's _permission_ , Mother," she retorted aghast. Closing her eye she counted to ten, then rather than argue she decided to approach the matter from another direction. "Besides," she forced a pleasant note into her voice, "You _know_ how important family is to him. If staying here will bring Laurie Beth peace of mind, he'll insist."

"I hope you realize how lucky you are, Laura," Abigail repeated her earlier assessment, "To have a man so concerned about family. He's going to make a wonderful father." Laura lifted her fingers to her brow. How her mother had managed to manipulate the conversation towards marriage and family… again… she wasn't quite sure.

"I'm sure he will make a wonderful father to _someone's_ children one day, Mother," she retorted with a sharp edge in her voice.

"There's no need to be testy, dear," Abigail replied with a long suffering sigh. "You know perfectly well I meant with you." The comment only served to irritate Laura more.

"And that's the problem!" she told her mother with exasperation, dropping her hand from her brow to emphasize her point. "I don't even know if I want to get married, let alone have children. Things are perfect just the way they are, as far as I'm concerned."

"Well, it's no wonder poor Wilson left, with an attitude like that," Abigail chastised. "Men like Wilson and Remington are only going to be willing to play house for so long before they either press for more permanency or move on to new pastures."

"That's not why—" Laura stumbled to a stop. To correct her mother's notion Wilson left because she was unwilling to marry him, would mean sharing more about her relationship with Wilson than she'd ever been willing to with her mother… or was now. "Marriage doesn't make someone stick around, Mother," she said instead with no little exasperation. "Look at Dad. He had permanency and he still 'moved on to new pastures.'" At her mother's sharp, wounded intake of breath, she scrunched her face in remorse. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," she sighed the apology. "My point is, a marriage license sometimes just… makes things more complicated than you could ever have predicted," she explained, thinking to the worthless marriage license held between Remington and she at that very moment.

Their personal relationship had never been without its complications, but in the months before the INS had arrived in their lives – well, except for that little hiccup at the Spa – they had been on the same page: Committed to one another and moving – a bit slower than he might like, maybe – forward towards something real, something honest.

Then she'd stood by and had watched everything she'd believed turn to ashes. He hadn't trusted her enough to come to her when he found himself in trouble. He'd gambled with her hard earned trust and had tried to put one past her… again. He'd risked the Agency… again… by trying to outwit the INS with a hair-brained scheme. And in attempting to marry the hooker, he'd abandoned her as much as her father and Wilson ever had, for he'd never once considered what his decision might do to her.

Yet, she'd still 'married' him to save his lousy hide… for no other reason than her heart had no idea how to let him go.

For a month afterwards she'd simultaneously pushed Remington away while pulling him close, openly flirting with Anthony Roselli while anticipating a 'honeymoon' with Remington. Her fury, her feeling of betrayal, her heartbreak, has swirled around her like a living breathing entity with her unsure who she was more infuriated with: Him, for what he'd done or herself for still loving him, despite what his deeds had shown. In the end, that flirtation with Roselli had confirmed what she'd known somewhere in her heart for a long, long time: Despite all his glaring imperfections and _huge_ missteps, no other man would do. So, she'd kicked Roselli to the curb and had decided she had no choice but to risk placing her heart in the hands of the man she loved… just… one… more… time – and hope that _this time_ he'd handle it with care.

It had taken three days – three days of talking, fighting and walking away – to find their peace with all that had transpired. She was, after all, not the only one left reeling from the month's events. In her fury, she'd lashed out at him and he'd been helpless to defend himself, at least not if he wanted a chance at all. And then, she'd betrayed his trust as well by keeping Daniel's true relationship to him secret.

The night before Daniel's televised funeral, they'd finally crossed that line. Exhausted by another long day of emotional interchanges, they'd laid down to take a much needed nap. It wasn't an unfamiliar position they found themselves in, as they'd spend many a lazy afternoon napping together on his couch or hers. _Where_ they'd chosen to nap, was unfamiliar territory: In the large bed in their 'honeymoon suite' while a fire blazed across the room. But after weeks of being at odds and a tentative peace restored, she unconsciously wriggled herself more snugly into the folds of his body when he'd spooned behind her. She'd felt his relief in the release of the tension in his body, as much as she'd heard it in his weary, staccato sigh.

They'd made no plans to consummate their relationship that evening. Over the last three days there had been no talk of a 'honeymoon' at all. Other matters – namely the survival of their partnership, friendship and quasi-romance – has been of far more pressing concern.

But on that night, making love had come as naturally to them as breathing. Not a word had been spoken about feelings, no promises had been made. Those had followed the next night, as they'd stood in one another's arms in the master chamber after Remington had carried her up the stairs.

They hadn't made love that night… or the next. He'd been so invested on repairing their tattered relationship that he'd never had time to properly grieve Daniel. That night had been about him, as had the next several days. She'd sent Mildred home under the guise of preparing the Agency to reopen and then, once it was just the two of them, stepped back and allowed him to grieve in whatever manner he needed to, with her unyielding support awaiting him when he turned to her. There were times he'd disappear for hours, walking the grounds of Ashford Castle alone. There were times he sought out her company even if only to be silently in her presence. On the second night he'd stayed awake until nearly dawn, helping himself to glass-after-glass of scotch until he was shockingly drunk… then had laid his head upon her lap as he'd fallen asleep muttering to himself about the lad who no one had ever wished to claim, let alone keep. He'd awakened the next morning somewhat sheepish, having remembered being fully in his cups but not a word of what he'd said.

Moving in together had occurred as naturally as making love that first time. The evening they'd arrived home, they'd collapsed, exhausted, into Remington's bed. They'd made love the next morning, then she'd departed for the loft alone. They spent the day unpacking, cleaning their individual homes, restocking their cupboards and fridge. By five o'clock she'd decided she'd had enough of domestic solitude and had called to invite him over for dinner – delivery, of course. He'd spent that night with her, then they'd spent the next pair apart. If the INS was watching them that closely, well, they had a cover story already prepared - Lover's tiff, just a small snafu adjusting to wedded bliss, yada yada – but they were equally determined the INS would not decide the course of the personal relationship. Still, in less than three month's time 'will I see you tonight' had changed, by its own accord, to 'I'll see you at home.'

No, that 'marriage license' didn't simplify their relationship, but complicated it, instead. She'd stopped even attempting to count all the balls hanging in the air, just waiting to rain down on their heads. They'd kept their faux marriage a secret from Laura's family at her insistence: She didn't have it in her to mislead them into believing she and Remington were truly married, and didn't trust them not to blow the marriage act wide open to the INS if they knew the truth. Monroe knew their 'marriage' was nothing more than a con, but having lived the life he not only provided exemplary testimony to the INS regarding the longevity of the Steele-Holt personal relationship, but had found it more than a bit amusing to pull the wool over the Federal Government's eyes. A few, select former clients were led to believe they were married – as they could attest to double dating with the couple in the past – but were sworn to absolute secrecy under the guise it would destroy Laura's career if it got out, the proverbial 'secretary' having a fling with her boss, and all that.

They still had a hard time living with the fact that they'd allowed Mildred to go on believing they were, as Remington put it, 'well and truly wed.' They hadn't made that decision lightly, but had argued back and forth for days, listing the all the reasons for telling her the truth, and countering those with reasons they should not. Under the heading of 'for' there had only been two reasons but they had been big ones: They didn't like deceiving her, and she'd be devastated when she learned they hadn't brought her in on the scam. And on the list against: She'd been so happy to believe her kids had finally tied the knot, and the idea of breaking her heart was, well, heartbreaking. Selfishly, revealing the truth would mean two years of looks, winks, hints and outright advice that they just 'do it for real already,' and neither of them were up for that. Then there was sheer practicality: Mildred would likely be drilled, endlessly, about the Steele marriage and one little slip up would be disastrous. As much as they loved the woman, the reality was she was inclined towards bragging on occasion and, when overexcited, often followed something she'd blurted with a hand slapped over her mouth, and a muttered oops. And therein had lay the most important 'against' that outweighed all the 'for's': In lying to her, she would not be complicit to their crime should it be brought to light.

Yes, that piece of paper was causing more than its share of problems, and it wasn't just a matter of who to tell what. She'd had to provide a copy of that fake marriage license to Social Security to change her name with the Agency in an 'act of good faith' for the INS. How would they rectify that after this was over? A fake divorce to accompany the faux marriage? Last year they'd been single almost as long as they'd been married, so filing separately hadn't raised eyebrows, but the new year was upon them, and there were decisions to be made about committing fraud with yet another governmental agency. There were joint check and savings that had been established for show. And their rings? Well, remembering when and with whom to wear them and when and with whom not to was a herculean task in and of itself.

Complicated indeed.

"Laura!?" Her mother's sharp tone drew Laura from her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Mother, someone's knocking at the door downstairs. I better go get it, in case it's room service," she fibbed. "We'll see you this afternoon. Bye."

Without ceremony she disconnected the line. Deciding room service wasn't a bad idea, she called and placed an order for a pot of coffee and tea, as well as a breakfast for each of them. It was, she had to concede, another morning to sleep in foiled by her mother.

And speaking of mothers…

She stood up and tromped into the bathroom, planting fisted hands on her hips as she stared at Remington in the mirror.

"So, I hear you and Mother are getting to be quite the phone pals," she announced in a clipped tone. He paused the stroke of his razor and looked at her in the mirror.

"If by 'phone pals' you mean the phone rang and I answered, then I suppose we are." He softened the retort with quick smile before returning to his shave.

"Did you speak about anything in particular last night?" His forehead crinkled as he pretended to give serious thought to the question.

"Ah, yes, she told me a delightful tale about your first time you danced in your ballet school's recital. You were seven, I believe, and you wore a little white—"

"One of these days, I'm gonna…" she growled while making a strangling motion with her hands. It had been one of the most humiliating days of her childhood, the little rosebuds of her panties left on display through her leotard. She'd been teased mercilessly for weeks. Was it any wonder she hadn't wanted to share news of their fake marriage with her Mother? "Skip the story, please," she ground out, now. "What else did you and Mother discuss? Anything about, oh, Christmas Eve?"

"Well, surely you're not upset with me for agreeing to attend Midnight Mass with the family?" he protested. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead and stared at him agog.

"I meant the Christmas Eve gathering before dinner and the ballet," she replied in a dazed tone. "I didn't even know about Midnight Mass. You could have just said—"

"It's one thing simply not to attend church, but I've a little too much of the Irish Catholic lad in me to outright refuse when invited," he defended. "Besides, it's fam-"

"…ily," she finished for him. "I know, I know," she confirmed with exasperation. Dropping her hands from her forehead, she took two steps towards him and forced a beatific smile upon her face. He immediately reared back and regarded her warily.

"Laura?" he drew out her name in question, a chill skittering up his spine. Dropping his razor, he faced her while lifting a thumb to his mouth so he could worry the nail. That particular smile normally meant she was about to impart upon him a rather painful lesson. She laid her flattened palms against his chest and looked up at him with widened eyes.

"Midnight Mass just reminded me of something," she smiled, serenely. "Do you remember last Christmas Eve?" She wrapped her arms around his neck and toyed with the damp ends of his hair. "The music, the fire burning, the Christmas tree lit, and me…" He laughed a wolfish laugh.

"In that delicious little ensemble that left absolutely nothing to the imagination," he finished appreciatively.

"Mmmmm," she agreed with a hum. A hand left his hair to skirt down his neck, over his collarbone then paused to play in the damp whorls of hair covering his chest. "You should see what I had planned to wear this year."

"I can hardly wait," he grinned, wrapping his arms around her waist and gathering her closer. "Of course, should you wish to give me a little preview now, I think-." His words came to a stop and he frowned when he realized she'd used past tense. "Had planned?" he questioned. The part angelic, part sultry smile disappeared from her face in the blink of an eye, and she pulled out of his embrace.

"Since you enjoy spending so much time with my family," she informed him, as she left the bedroom and continued speaking from the room beyond, "I've invited them to spend the night with us so Santa can find Laurie Beth." She appeared again in the doorway, and held up five pieces of clothing. "So this little ensemble?" His eyes skimmed over the white silk stockings, red and white garter, then fastened on two pieces of material formed into a bow. His imagination went wild, trying to envision exactly where those bows might go. He swallowed hard. "Take a good look, because this is the only time you'll be seeing it as it's hardly appropriate for guests."

With those words, she spun on her heel and disappeared back into the bedroom. He stared at the empty doorframe for two blinks of an eye then gave chase.

"Laura… Laura… Perhaps you're being a bit hasty…"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

All things accounted for it had been a remarkably pleasant Christmas Eve Day.

As was often the case, Laura had relented and given in to Remington's yen to visit various iconic movie sites throughout the city, rationalizing she would only be giving up a few hours of her time for something he'd tremendously enjoy, while he was giving up ten days to appease her mother. _An early Christmas present_ , she told herself, and one that he'd hold memories of for years to come.

They'd begun their tour in the private residence section of the Plaza Hotel. It had taken only a few questions to determine where Cary Grant had traversed the lobby in _North by Northwest_ , then a hundred dollar bill discretely pressed into the palm of a hand to gain them access to the area normally restricted to residents only. The cost had been nominal and the experience for Remington had been priceless.

Tiffany & Company on Fifth Avenue had been next…

" _Breakfast at Tiffany's_ , Audrey Hepburn, George Peppard, Paramount, 1961. Aubrey stood right here at this very window, Laura."

Followed by the New York Public Library on 42nd and 5th ( _Breakfast at Tiffany's)_ andthe Criminal Courts Building in Manhattan ( _Adam's Rib)_ where she slanted her eyes at him and asked…

"Should I be concerned that there's a formal invitation for your appearance here?" she jested. With a lift of his brows he regarded her with amusement twinkling in his eyes.

"There might have been…" he joked in return, "Had a job ever called me to this remarkable city."

Next up: 52nd and Lexington.

" _The Seven Year Itch,_ Marilyn Monroe, Tom Ewell, Twentieth Century Fox, 1955," he recited. "The scene of the crime, so to speak," he mused.

"Crime?" she wondered. "I don't recall a crime.

"The scene with her skirt." He comically mimicked Monroe attempting to hold down her skirts, drawing Laura's laughter. "It was quite scandalous, displaying her undergarments as she did, although…" he stood erect again and held up a single finger for emphasis, "…The scene certainly provided fodder for many a young lad's fantasies." The comment captured her curiosity.

"Including your own?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," he openly scoffed, taking her hand and leading her down the street, "Not only was the woman at least twenty-five years older than me, but by the time I'd have been old enough to appreciate her… assets… she'd long since passed." She snorted her disbelief at his answer, as he raised a hand and whistled at an available taxi.

"Ingrid Bergman would have been about the same age as Marilyn Monroe," she reasoned, as the cab came to a screeching halt next to the curb. "And if your fascination with _Casablanca_ is any indication, she's what some might consider to be the woman of your dreams." Reaching around her, he opened the door to the cab then swung her into his arms, eliciting a surprised laugh to bubble past her lips. He caught her around the waist and hauled her in.

"The woman of _and in_ my dreams, Miss Holt," a pair of piercing blue eyes held her brown ones as a hand slipped into her hair, "Happens to be the one that's led me on a merry chase these past six years." A slow smile lit her face and her eyes infused with warmth.

"Oh, is that so?" she asked with a teasing tone. But he wasn't in a joking mood.

"Don't you know?" he asked somberly, then drew her lips to his for a kiss.

"Hey, buddy, move it!" the cab driver shouted. "Guy's gotta make a livin' and it ain't happenin' with my cab sittin' still. Smooch with da lady on your own time." Remington abruptly ended the kiss when Laura laughed against his lips. With a frown in the direction of the cabbie, he handed her into the car then followed.

"Where to?" the driver demanded, impatiently. Laura glanced at her watch. They had time for only one more stop if they were going to make it back in time for the family Christmas Eve gathering.

"The Empire State Building," she directed. The cabbie floored the gas and the cab darted into the midday traffic before Remington had fully closed the door. He leaned in to speak next to her ear.

"The perfect job for Mildred should she ever desire a new one," he muttered. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle her horrified laugh.

"You may be right," she agreed around her laughter.

"Well I'll be damned, looks like da weatherman were right for a change," the driver commented loudly, peering up at the sky through the windshield. Multiple horns blared to their left, and with a hard yank of the steering wheel that rocked the car from side-to-side, the car returned to its lane. "Looks like we gonna have a white Christmas just like he said," the driver continued as though nothing had happened.

Remington bent his head down to look out the window, while Laura did the same on the opposite side of the car.

"I can't remember when it was I last saw a white Christmas," Remington admired.

"Yeah, it's pretty ta look at but it's gonna be a mess out here if it comes down like they said. Could take you an hour just ta get a mile," the cabbie noted. Remington and Laura exchanged glances.

"You're kidding, right?" Laura asked what they were both thinking.

"Nah, I'm being serious as shit," the cabbie replied. "Like I said, da white stuffs pretty ta look at but ain't no one wanna be out walking 'round in it. Every driver in da city will be on these roads lookin' to make a buck, and there still ain't gonna be enough taxis ta go 'round. Ain't no one that can drive worth a shit in da snow. Ya know, because of da movies, people think we get snow all da time, but it ain't a fact. So when we do get it?" He pretended to shiver. "Then there da tourists, who already ain't got a clue how ta get around, making it even worse. Yup, these roads are gonna be a mess." Another look was exchange between the couple.

"We have tickets to the ballet for tonight at eight. How long's this supposed to last?" Laura inquired, with a glance at her watch. It was two-forty-five now. With a little luck, in an hour or two, the storm would pass.

"At least midnight they said, with da worst of it between four and ten. Thank da Good Lord most people are off for Christmas Eve or it would be even worse. Where you stayin'?"

"At The Plaza," Laura provided. "We have reservation at Sardi's before the ballet. At six-thirty."

"Well, they both ain't happenin' lady. It'll take you that same hour, hour and fifteen ta get from da restaurant ta da ballet. That gives you, what? Forty-five minutes ta get seated, order, get your food and eat. Probably take you 'bout half that time just ta get seated, reservation or no. Any other night? No problem? Tonight? Ain't happenin'." Laura sat forward a bit more in her seat.

"And how long will it take us to get back to the hotel?"

"Right now? Twenty minutes or so. In an hour if this keeps up? Hour and a half, maybe." She looked to Remington who lifted his brows at her as if to say 'what can we do?' With a huff of aggravation, she slumped back in her seat and crossed her arms.

"Can you take us back to the hotel, please?" she requested.

"Sure thing, lady." Laura turned her head to look at Remington.

"I'm sorry," she drew out the words. "I should have checked the weather, or at the very least shouldn't have left the Empire State Building until last." Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her close and lay his cheek against the side of her head.

"There's always another day, Laura," he reminded her. "As much as you like to control all the variables, even you hold no power over the weather. And frankly, if I had to choose between the Empire State Building and a white Christmas, I'd much prefer the latter." She tipped back her head to look up at him.

"Really?"

"Mmmmm," he answered, looking over her head at the crowded city streets. "It never feels quite like Christmas without a nip in the air and the bustle of the city around you. Even living on the streets, knowing you're going to freeze your bollocks off unless you can find yourself someplace warm to kip, there's something about a fresh layer of powder over everything that somehow makes the holiday a bit… magical, I suppose." Resting her head on his shoulder, she smiled up at him.

"You, Mr. Steele, are a true romantic at heart," she observed. He shifted slightly beneath her, embarrassed by what he knew to be praise, and patted her on the hip a pair of times.

"Yes, well, now what are we to do about tonight?" She gave him a rueful look then turned her attention to outside of the window.

"Well, we'd better come up with something, because if I know Mother, somehow this will be all my fault."

* * *

Laura and Remington had arrived back at the hotel by five after three, with their course charted for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. With a call to room service, they'd arranged dinner for eight and the promise of a very generous tip had guaranteed immediate delivery of flatware, china and glassware… as well as two bottles of chilled bubbly – one bottle for now, and one for later. While Remington dressed the dining room table to his liking, Laura attended to the other details: Starting a fire in the hearth, pulling curtains and sheers back on the windows so the snow fall could be seen from anywhere in the room, arranging the presents beneath the tree to her satisfaction and finding a radio station that played classic Christmas music. By the time a knock sounded on the door at three-fifty-nine, they'd enjoyed ten quiet minutes to themselves after the suite had been prepared to their satisfaction.

"It's Christmas Eve, Mr. Remington," Laurie Beth announced excitedly as she hurled herself at him when he opened the door. Sweeping her up in his arms, he plopped her onto his hip, as if he'd been holding children all his life. Laura didn't miss Abigail's pointed look at the scene and easily interpreted what it meant: 'See, I told you he's going to make a great father.' She fought the urge to roll her eyes and pecked a perfunctory kiss to her mother's cheek.

"Merry Christmas, Mother," she greeted, before turning to exchange hugs with Donald and Frances. The whole 'traditional greetings at the door' gambit seemed rather silly to her- after all, they'd spent the last two days together. But Abigail Holt was a stickler for etiquette and tradition, so to do otherwise would earn her censorship.

"Can we open our presents now?" Laurie Beth asked, linking her arms around Remington's neck. A quick look told him the three adults before him didn't have a problem with allowing the children to jump right in.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," he agreed on behalf of the adults.

A trio of happy exclamations arose and Laurie Beth wriggled down out of Remington's arm to give chase to her older brother and sister who made a beeline for the tree.

"Danny, Mindy, Laurie Beth," Frances called them back, "Please take our presents and your grandmother's and put them under the tree," she instructed. "Then you may look at the presents, but don't open anything until everyone is ready." She turned back to the group as the trio of children hauled the bags of presents toward the tree. "They're so excited. First, Christmas in a city like New York, and now the snow. Even little Laurie Beth got into the spirit once we told her since we'd be staying here tonight, Santa would have no trouble finding her." Laura smirked, a look correctly interpreted by Remington as a reminder of his need to rein it in where her family was concerned, but Frances saw it as reluctance. "Are you sure about us staying here? We don't want to impose. The children will be up at dawn and I'm afraid it'll be almost impossible to keep them quiet. Laurie Beth will be fine—"

"Frances, it's fine," Laura reassured, laying a hand on her sister's shoulder. "But we do need to talk about tonight…"

As the group walked towards the tree to join the children, Laura and Remington shared the information they'd learned from the cabbie and then explained the executive decision they'd made in the absence of Abigail and the Pipers. All three of the adults agreed the solution Remington and Laura had come up with was for the best, and given the children weren't particularly looking forward to another formal dining experience the kink in the original plans was probably a blessing in disguise. Once the group was seated – Abigail and Donald choosing the wing chairs, while Remington, Laura and Frances made themselves comfortable on the couch – the traditional Christmas Eve present opening was ready to begin.

"Danny, Mindy, your mother and I have discussed it, and we believe you're old enough now to take on present duty," Donald announced. The two eldest Piper children looked at one another in disbelief. In the Piper household, the task was considered an honor – one previously held only by their parents.

"For real?" Mindy dared to ask.

"Totally," Donald replied, trying his hand at the popular lingo of the day. It was not received well.

"Ewww, Dad, uh-uh, no-no-no," Danny criticize. Having turned thirteen that year, he found his parents' attempts to be 'cool' were… well… embarrassing. Donald took the censorship in stride, remembering well his own embarrassment when his father would do the same to him as a teen.

"Alright, then how about, yes, 'for real.'"

"Cool!"

"This one's for you from Grandma, Laurie Beth!" Mindy announced, handing the present to her younger sister.

"For you, Grandma, from Aunt Laura and Mr. Remington," Danny informed Abigail as he presented her with her gift.

In short order, paper was tearing – Laura cringing with each rip – bows were flying and oohs and aah's were flowing. In the midst of the present opening, a knock on the door to the suite heralded the arrival of room service. After showing the trio of workers to the dining room where dinner would be served, Remington took a brief detour, returning to the living room with a large gift in hand. Without a word he set the package at his feet, drawing Laura's curious gaze.

"For you Mr. Remington, from Grandma," Danny informed him as he handed Remington a fair sized package.

"And for you, Aunt Laura, from Grandma," Mindy offered.

With the tree now emptied, the two eldest Piper siblings were free to open the presents they had received, some received with a courteous thank you and others followed by whoops of joy. Laura removed the lid to the carefully unwrapped box on her lap and held up a cream colored cashmere sweater, then admired the camel colored, conservative suede skirt that accompanied it.

"They're lovely, Mother," she complimented, as Remington ripped the paper off his gift with abandon. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, dear," Abigail returned, "I just hope they'll fit." Laura drew in a silent breath at the perceived insult then jabbed an elbow into Remington's ribs.

"Ooomph," he grunted, then looking up saw pained expression on Laura's face and understood the hint to intervene. "Abigail, I'm truly touched," he held slightly aloft the pair of books she'd gifted him: _A Pictorial History of Crime Films_ and _The Movie Makers: Bogart_. He stood and walked over to her chair to lean down and buss her on the cheek. "Thank you," he told her with utter sincerity.

"Holy Pete!" Danny shouted. "Look Min, Aunt Laura and Mr. Remington got us a Nintendo!" Mindy abandoned the scarf and gloves from Abigail that she'd been admiring and scrambled to his side.

"No way!" she refuted, even as she looked at the box that clearly showed they'd received the gaming system.

"Way!" he confirmed, ripping open his second present from the couple. " _The Legend of Zelda!_ Did you get a game too?"

"I dunno?!" she leaned over and sorted through her unopened gifts and found one of about the right size bearing Laura and Remington's names. She unceremoniously ripped the paper from the small package. "I did! I did! _Super Mario Brothers!_ "

"Best Christmas _ever!_ " Danny proclaimed.

"For sure!" Mindy agreed, bounding to her feet to run to her aunt and give her a hug. "Thank you , Aunt Laura." She turned to Remington and hugged him as well. "Thank you, Mr. Remington."

"Yeah, thanks!" Danny seconded.

"It was our pleasure," Remington answered for the pair.

"You really shouldn't have," Frances insisted in an undertone as Mindy returned to her gifts. "Those game things are so expensive."

"Believe me," Laura gesticulated with a hand, "With the discount Remington gets, it really wasn't all that much." She looked up, surprised, when Remington placed the large gift he'd set at his feet in her lap.

"What's this? I thought we agreed to exchange our presents tomorrow morning?" She eyed the package. "And where did it come from? I know you didn't pack it." He grinned at her.

"One of the many advantages of not shopping months ahead," he boasted. "When we found out we'd be in New York for the holiday, a few well placed phone calls was all it took to find what I was looking for, then I arranged to have it delivered to the hotel and secreted in our room shortly before our arrival," he boasted.

"Well," she stood up and turned to hand him the present, "I'll just go get—" Avoiding the box, he reached for her arm and eased her back down.

"That's not necessary, Laura," he insisted. "Let's just call the premature delivery of your gift a matter of necessity." She studied him for a long second, the set the box back in her lap.

"Alright," she drew out the word as she tugged on an end of the large red bow adorning the package.

"Mindy, Danny, you can finish your inspection of the game… thing… once you finish opening your presents," Frances told them then looked at her youngest child. "What do you have, Laurie Beth?" Laurie Beth was by far the least boisterous of her children and had been sitting in virtual silence, concentrating on each gift, only speaking to quietly thank someone for what she'd received.

"Aunt Laura and Mr. Remington gave me a Cabbage Patch Doll," she told her mother when she stood before Frances and held the doll up for her mother to admire. "Her name is Lucy and she was born on May twenty-eighth, just like me." She hugged the puggish faced, brown yarn haired doll tightly. "Isn't she the most beautiful doll ever?"

"She's very pretty," Frances concurred.

Next to Laura, Remington shifted restlessly. A full discourse on a doll had taken place, and Laura was still carefully peeling back the tape that adhered the wrapping paper together. He was a man that enjoyed seeing a gift recipient's reaction and all this waiting… Well, it was hell. He fought for patience, and lost the battle.

"For pity's—" He stopped the oath before it was finished, then smiling wide, offered, "Here, let me give you a hand."

"No! Don't…" She cringed when he tore the paper straight down the center. "The paper!" she lamented.

"Merely trying to help," he fibbed, then tried a bit of reasoning, "Honestly, Laura, it's not as though you're going to pack the paper and take it home with us." Seeing the mournful look on her face as she stared down at her present, he second guessed himself. "You _weren_ ' _t_ going to take the paper home, were you?" There was not a chance she'd admit to as much, as he'd be ribbing her about it the remainder of their stay. Instead, she parted the destroyed paper and lifted the lid from the box.

Then softly gasped her appreciation, while lifting the fedora out of the box to really study it. The snow white wool fedora sported a white felt band trimmed in cream satin, that was embellished with a jaunty little white bow on the left side. It was impractical for every day wear really… and she loved it.

"I love it," she told him, reiterating her thoughts with a soft smile. He lifted his brows and looked pointedly to the box.

"Can you…?" She handed him the hat and nodded at the coffee table.

"Certainly." He leaned forward and sat the hat on the table as she reached back into the box. He held the box for her when she stood up while removing the garment fully.

"it's… stunning," she complimented. The white wool coat featured a wide collar trimmed in cream satin, and an a-line design that saw the coat nipping in tightly at the waist before the material fell into a flowing, asymmetrical skirt. A matching white and satin trimmed belt rounded out the look. Sitting aside the box, he stood and took the coat from her, tickled that she was so pleased by the gift.

"While your fur is nearly as lovely as you," he explained, as he helped her into the coat, "In this weather, it's not very practical and you'll need something appropriate to wear to the ballet this evening." He'd gifted her the fur coat, as well, on her thirtieth birthday almost two years prior – an indulgence she'd never have allowed herself.

"You have exquisite taste, Remington," Abigail complimented, as Laura crossed the room to examine herself in the mirror above the credenza.

"Yes, he does," Laura agreed, realizing too late that she'd just stroked the man's ego. She frowned at the mirror when she saw the wide smile that said he was basking in the admiration. Taking off the coat, she walked over to the closet while speaking.

"It's nearly quarter to five," she noted. "Since everyone is finished opening their presents, we might want to consider having dinner now if we're going to be dressed and ready to leave by seven."

"Excellent idea, Laura," Remington concurred, then offered his hand to Abigail. "May I escort you to the dining room?" Hidden by the door of the closet she rolled his eyes heavenwards at the gesture. _As if he already can do no wrong in Mother's eyes_ , she mentally groused. Hanging up the coat, she forced a smile on the face and closed the door.

 _One more hour. Just one more hour_ , she reminded herself. There would be little opportunity to converse later in the evening, less opportunity for her mother to get in a new dig.

Just… one… more… hour.

* * *

"Remington, having the hotel serve dinner buffet style was an inspired idea," Abigail praised as she stepped into the hallway after the Piper family. Remington casually slung his arm around Laura's waist.

"All the credit goes to Laura," he deflected.

"I'm impressed, dear," Abigail complimented her youngest daughter. Laura wasn't buying it. She'd endured her mother's frequent barbs and constant cloaked criticisms throughout dinner, and a half hour earlier had affixed her face with a mask of cool detachment, one she wasn't about to remove now.

"Why thank you, Mother," she replied in falsely pleasant tone, then waited for it to come…

"I don't know how Remington's managed to get you to take an interest in any domestic duties, God knows I was never able to." Laura's flinch was indiscernible to anyone but Remington, but he felt it beneath his hand, and stroked her side with his thumb. Automatically he reached for the door and began to slowly close it.

"Actually, I'm rather fond of the fact Laura has no interest in the kitchen," he corrected. "Not only do I enjoy cooking, but preparing meals is one of the few ways she'll allow me to pamper her." Laura's fingers covered the fingers at her waist with hers in a show of gratitude for his defense, then had to use an iron strong will to resist the urge to mimick the words she knew were coming.

"She's very lucky to have you," Abigail told Remington with an approving pat on his cheek. "We'll see you in the lobby at seven." With those final words, she turned and followed the Pipers towards the elevator bank and Remington closed the door behind her.

Laura sagged beneath his hand and covered her eyes with her hands.

"I'll never be able to do anything right in her eyes," she lamented, then with a deep, cleansing breath, tried to shake off all the dings her self-esteem had taken on the evening. She laid a hand against his arm as she turned towards the stairs leading to the master. "Let's get ready, huh?"

Remington eyed her defeated posture as she climbed the stairs and hoped he might have something up his sleeve that would turn this evening around.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Remington shrugged on his coat then held up Laura's for her to slip her arms into. The ballet had been the perfect respite in the midst of a difficult evening.

 _The Nutcracker_ had long been a tradition of Remington and hers, having attended the ballet every holiday season since his arrival in her life in '82. The first year he'd appeared in her life, he'd secured the tickets for no other reason than an excuse to spend time with her.

She'd made two startling revelations during the few months that they'd lived together. First, all the years that he'd wheedled his way into spending more time with her, had elbowed his way into a case just to be near her, it wasn't about the challenge she'd presented to his aspirations for a physical relationship, at all. The man who'd flitted through life, moving from place-to-place, having meaningless encounters with women across the globe… the man who need nowhere, nothing and no one… was a remarkably lonely man. In her presence he'd found something that calmed him, that made him feel at peace… that made him feel like he'd finally found his place in the world. It wasn't long after that first revelation that she acknowledged the second: He wasn't the only person who'd found where he belonged. In him she'd found _that_ person, the one person would be there for her without question, willingly lending her shoulder or support, should she need him - No matter how angry they were with one another, no matter the status of their on-again-off-again romance.

She'd finally admitted that somewhere in the recesses of her mind, or maybe her heart, she'd always known: Something in each of them, completed part of the other. Maybe that's why, when he'd presented her with tickets to the _Nutcracker_ after their disastrous trip to Cannes, that despite the hiatus she'd called on their personal relationship, it was one invitation she hadn't resisted or challenged. _The Nutcracker_ … with him… had become a large part of what made the Christmas season feel like Christmas.

"Have I told you how stunning you are this evening, Miss Holt?" he murmured next to her ear now, as he slid her coat over her shoulders. Smiling, she tilted her head to the side, her head touching his in a subtle display of affection.

"Yes, I believe you have," she answered in a quiet voice as she straightened then reached for the buttons on her coat, "A couple of times even."

"Then it must be true," he spoke near her ear again, before laying a hand on the small of her back and escorting her to the theater's doors. Stepping outside, they joined Abigail and Donald.

"I sent Frances back to the hotel," Abigail informed the couple. "It's been a long day for children, especially little Laurie Beth. She's exhausted."

 _She's not the only one_ , Laura thought to herself, turning her head to people watch and checking out of the conversation. Second only to the performance itself, one of her favorite parts of attending the ballet was observing people in their formal garb. There was just something about tuxedos and gowns that transformed the people wearing them. People seemed more confident, to stand more proudly, to smile more often… to shine. Even Donald, who she'd now seen precisely two times in a tux, carried himself with a prouder bearing… and looked very handsome, if she did say so—

"Huh," she mused, not realizing she'd done so aloud.

"What is it, Laura?" Remington wondered, hoping fervently that something that might develop into a case hadn't caught her attention. She looked at him as though surprised he'd spoken to her.

"What?" His question caught up with her thoughts. "Oh, the carriage. It reminds me of a scene you'd find on a Christmas card," she shared. The snow white carriage was trimmed in red and featured plush, red velvet seats. The coachman had taken care to decorate boot of his seat with poinsettias and holiday greenery and the white draft horse's harness, bellyband, breeching and breeching strap were all trimmed in red.

"Mmm, yes, it does at that," he agreed, appreciating the scene himself. She laid a soft hand on his upper arm.

"We should consider taking a carriage tour before we leave the city, if we can find the time," she suggested.

"A wonderful idea, Laura," Abigail commented. "I think I'll just go ask him for a card and about his rates." Laura gave herself a mental kick in the shin and groaned aloud for having given her mother yet another opportunity to create a command family performance. Crossing her arms, she turned her head and gave Remington a thunderous scowl.

"I don't care how many brownie points you think it will win you with my mother," she warned, in an undertone, "I am _not_ going on what should be a romantic ride through the park with my _mother_ along." He parted his lips to answer and found himself staring down at a single finger pressed upon them, and an auburn haired, temperamental sprite with fire in her eyes looking up at him. "And if I hear _one more time_ 'It's family, Laura,' you may find yourself sleeping in that empty room next to Mother's tonight." He laughed low in his throat.

"Wouldn't think of it," he dismissed, "Although we might wish to consider having Donald and Frances join us."

"Nah, not us. I'm allergic to the darned things," Donald declined, "My eyes would be watering and I'd be sneezing for a week." He grinned at Remington and Laura. "Now if Frances and Abigail want to take the children, I'm all for it. I could use a few hours of downtime."

"The off-ramp conundrum?" Remington suggested. Donald appeared as baffled as Laura by the remark.

"The off-ramp conundrum?" she wondered. Remington waved a hand at the air.

"Just a reference to a conversation Donald and I had back in '85 while touring the city in the back of a Bright-Age Cosmetics delivery truck."

"Oh, the off-ramp conundrum," Donald laughed aloud as that conversation clicked in his head. "Yeah, that about sums it up. Togetherness is one thing. Five people crammed in two small rooms with your mother-in-law right next door for ten-days is… a lot of togetherness and with Frances and Abigail determined to drag us all over the city…" he left the thought unfinished, wearily. "You have it made, Remington." Remington chuckled at Donald's assessment.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he mused, drily, rubbing at his chin and glancing over his shoulder in Abigail's direction.

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Laura demanded to know, taking offense at the implication she might be making this trip less than pleasant for him. Hadn't they just spent an entire day catering to his desire to admire various film locations across the city?

"Remington, be a dear and flag us down a cab," Abigail called to him, when she saw him looking in her direction. Sometimes salvation came from the most unexpected of places, and he gladly took the opportunity to escape Laura's umbrage.

"Of course. Right away." Donald's eyes moved between Laura's outraged expression and Remington's retreating back, then back to Laura.

"Aw, he didn't mean anything by that," Donald assured. Laura's chin tipped up a notch and she crossed her arms, stubbornly, turning her head to regard Remington as he lifted a hand towards an available hack.

"I wouldn't be so sure," she groused as they walked together toward the curb and joined Remington as the taxi cab came to a halt.

"Everything's all set," Abigail announced when she joined the trio, then turned to address Laura and Remington as he opened the back door to the cab. "The driver assured me he can take you back to the hotel through the park and have you there before midnight with no problem." Laura's hand paused as it was reaching for the hand Remington had offered to assist her into the cab.

"The park? The hotel? Mother, what are you talking about? We'll be lucky to make it to St. Patrick's for midnight mass as it is. We don't have time to stop at the hotel," she exclaimed. Abigail cast an exasperated look towards her youngest daughter.

"Laura, there are days I would swear you don't listen to a thing I say," she huffed. "I thought I made it perfectly clear only a few minutes ago that, given the weather, I think it's best if we forgo attending midnight mass this year." Laura blinked a pair of times, trying to recall any such conversation. Standing out of Abigail's sight line, Remington correctly interpreted the look on Laura's face, and nodded his confirmation that the conversation had, indeed, taken place.

"I'm sorry, Mother," Laura sighed the apology, "It's been a long day." Taking Remington's hand, she began to get in the cab, only to have her mother stop her again.

"Laura, the carriage," Abigail said pointedly.

"What about the carriage?" Laura snapped. She'd finally reached her limit for the day and wanted nothing more than go back to the hotel, climb into bed and hide under the covers for the next week.

"It's waiting for you and Remington," Abigail replied with a disapproving frown for her daughter's tone. "I'm sure the two of you could use a little time alone after arranging dinner this evening and offering your guest room to France, Donald and the children." Laura looked from her mother to Remington then back to her mother again, waiting for the trap to be sprung. "Laura, the driver is on the clock," Abigail prodded. Laura looked to Remington again, who gave her a shrug as if to say 'I see no harm."

"Yes, Mother," she answer warily, but nonetheless linked her arm through the crooked elbow offered to her by Remington. She couldn't resist looking over her shoulder – twice – to see if Abigail was following to join them.

"Laura, relax," Remington urged in an undertone.

" _I can't_ ," she hissed. "Mother does nothing without an ulterior motive."

"Don't you think you're being a little—"

"What?!" she snapped. He held up his free hand in a symbol of surrender.

"Good evening, sir, ma'am. The Plaza by way of Central Park?" the coachman greeted, then verified.

"That sounds about right," Remington agreed, then gently nudged Laura whose eyes were peeled on her mother as she got into the back of the cab, not releasing her breath until Donald got in behind, closed the door and the taxi pulled away from the curb. "Laura?"

"Huh?" She turned to look at him, then with a small shake of her head, took his proffered hand and stepped up into the carriage. Once Remington joined them, the coachman offered them a pair of thick blankets, which Remington spread out over their laps.

"You're in for a rare treat," the coachman informed them as he climbed up into his seat. "A Christmas Eve sleigh ride through Central Park when it's blanketed in snow. We haven't had snow on Christmas eve since back in '66. If you'd like to stop anywhere, just give me a shout, otherwise, I'll leave you alone."

"Appreciate it, mate," Remington called to him, as, with a quick snap of the reins, the coachman sent the carriage in motion.

It wasn't until they entered Central Park that Laura's tension left her body with a long, hearty sigh.

"I'm sorry," she offered a heartfelt apology. Laying her head against his shoulder she looked up at him through her lashes. "I don't think I can do this for another week," she confessed. Shifting, he wrapped his arm around her, and gave her a brief hug.

"After tomorrow morning, we've only two more events on that itinerary of hers until New Year's Eve. I'm sure we can think of any number of things to do in New York City alone. Hmmmm? You do still owe me a trip to the Empire State Building, after all." His token attempt at levity brightened her mood considerably. She tilted back her head and lifted her brows at her.

"Oh, I do, do I?" she challenged. "And here I thought today was a one day affair." A crooked smile softly lifted his lips, and he slipped a pair of fingers beneath her chin.

"I do believe you mean _An Affair to Remember,_ " he suggested with a hum in his voice. Leaning down, he kissed her with a tender ardor that left her blood humming and toes curling… and vanquished any thoughts of her mother from her mind. When their lips parted, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, then leaned back against his shoulder to look out over the park.

There was a hush in the air, the noise of the city muted by the thick copse of trees surrounding the park. Somewhere in the distance, carolers sang _What Child is This_." Beyond the clip-clopping of the horses shoes upon the ground, she couch hear the sound of the snow at it fell on icy branches of the large trees lining the lane, whose long, twisting, snow covered limbs created an icy canopy above them. The sparse light glinted off of benches and the low-slung fence lining the lane. The cool air nipped at her cheeks, while the man sat piled beneath blankets with her kept her warm.

"It really is very romantic," she appreciated. "If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if you'd staged the whole thing." He stiffened slightly next to her.

"What on earth would make you say that?" he wondered. She looked back at him and smiled.

"Well, you have to admit, it's a scene that could be straight out of one of your movies," she pointed out, logically. The idea amused her, inspiring her to expound upon it. "It's Christmas Eve in the big city. After days facing one peril after another, our hero and heroine take a romantic sleigh ride through a piece of Eden found in the midst of the chaotic city as the snow falls lightly around them." He playfully straightened his tie with a hand while pursing his lips at her.

"I don't even think I…" he lifted his brows at her "… could make it snow on command." She laughed quietly and patted a hand against his chest.

"I'm sure if you thought it would get you out of work, you'd find a way," she noted, wryly.

"Go on with your story," he urged. "It's actually quite good so far."

"Alright." She took a moment to reflect on some of his movies. "Ah. Carolers can be heard singing in the distance, and the hero, knowing the woman beside him believes Christmas is the best day of the year, orders the coachman to drive in the direction from where the singing came. She laughs at his antic, delighted that he's recalled her favorite day," she continued, speaking more dramatically as she went. "The sound of her laughter overwhelms him, and he leans in to give her a kiss, then overcome with his love for her he _leaps_ …" she dramatically swept an arm toward the side of the vehicle "…out of the carriage. Jumping up onto the nearest bench he spreads his arms wide and—"

"You lost me at the leap," he deadpanned. She looked at him surprised.

"What do you mean? I thought it was a pretty good story!" she defended.

"Mmmmm," he hummed his disagreement. "With that leap it became far more Crosby than Bogart."

"So?!" she proclaimed.

"Well, you did say a scene straight out of one of my movies," he reminded her. "And so far as I know, there's not a single Crosby movie amongst my collection. I mean, honestly, Laura, can you imagine Bogart leaping from a carriage, prepared to break out into song?" he mocked. She smiled and waved to the carolers as the carriage drove past the group.

"I never said the hero was going to break out into song," she protested.

"I should hope not," he quickly replied. "The man couldn't sing worth a damn. Shortly after I arrived in LA, I was watching a biography on Bogart, and they played a brief clip of him singing. The first note was promising, then it all went quickly downhill from there. But singing aside, he jumps up on a bench and spreads open his arms? Reminds me of Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Not at all digni—" She crossed her arms and jutted out her chin.

"Fine. If you think you can do better, by all means…" she waved an arm in the air. A single brow quirked upwards, a sign that she'd tickled him with her tiff.

"I just might," he drawled with a defiant air.

"Go for it!" she dared, with a swipe of her hand this time.

"I think I will. Let's see…" A few ticks of the secondhand on his watch passed as he scanned the scenery around them. "Ah, yes… In the distance ahead our… hero and heroine…" he flipped hand in her direction, offering her credit for those roles "…see a halo of light beyond the shadows of the wooded lane on which they traveled. Curiosity piqued, they instruct the coachman to drive straight on. In only a few of the horse's strides, our hero and hero could see the outlines of domed lamps glowing under the night sky in the area beyond." She mentally gave him points for drawing out in words the scene coming into focus before them.

"Go on," she encouraged, settling back in against him.

"Alright," he agreed as the first notes of a cello could be heard from the distance beyond, giving him inspiration. "As they draw closer to the light, the first strands of Pachelbel's _Canon in D Major_ fill the air. The high notes of a violin merge with the mellow notes of the cello, then another violin and viola join. And, as the melody fills the frost bitten air—"

"Pachelbel's _Canon in D Minor_ , Mr. Steele? I'm impressed," she complimented, for it was exactly the song that was coming from somewhere in front of them.

"As unconventional as it might have been, please do try to remember my training in the arts, literature, language and etiquette far surpassed even that of the most well-heeled Eton lad's," he scolded, lightly. "This little piece of Pachelbel's may suit our movie, but I have a particular fondness for Chopin's _Prelude in E Minor."_ A smile tickled her lips, as she wondered if he was about to slip up and share a tiny morsel of his past with her.

"Oh?" she carefully feigned polite interest rather than avid curiosity, "Why's that?" She wanted to wipe the smug grin right off his face: He'd caught her fishing.

"A story for another day," he dismissed. Her smile faltered then disappeared.

"Of course it is," she answered in what he bemusedly dubbed a sulk. He'd never admitted to standing beneath her window on the eve he'd gifted her piano, listening as strains of Chopin's _Prelude in E Minor_ trickled through the windows of her loft into the night air beyond… and he wasn't about to do so now.

"And, as the melody fills the frost bitten air," he continued his story, "The heroine catches her first sight of the quartet. The skirts of their long red gowns rustle in the wind as their fingers danced and their bows skimmed over the strings of their instruments." _Oh, he's good_ , she admitted, admiring the quartet of women dressed in red gowns and seated on white chairs, with white music stands trimmed in holly before them.

"Go on."

"The carriage comes to a sudden halt." As if on command, the coachman signaled his horse to come to rest and the carriage stilled. "Captivated by picturesque scene of Bethesda Fountain centered in the small courtyard before them, several seconds pass before our heroine realizes a man dressed in tux and tails is approaching their carriage from the other side." Surprised by the sudden turn this very promising romance seemed to be taking, she turned to frown at him.

"Of course there would be a man," she groused. "Even in the stories we write ourselves, the hero and heroine get interrupted." He barked a laugh at the reminder of how many times the two of them had been interrupted during an amorous interlude by bullets flying, phones ringing, and Mildred barging in.

"Now, where was I?" he questioned. "Ah, yes," he waved his hand. "A man dressed in tux and tails is approaching their carriage from the other side. The insatiably curious woman leans forward slightly to get a better view." Remington swung open the low hanging door and stepped out of the carriage as he spoke. "Suddenly, our hero descends from the carriage to collect what it is the man has brought to him…" Laura scooted over to where Remington had been sitting and sat up a little straighter as she watched him walk to the man. _What is he doing? Who is this guy?_ she wondered.

"Remington, what's—"

"Our hero turns around, then delivers to his lady love six roses-" She took the flowers from him automatically, then suddenly seemed to surprised to find them held in an arm.

"What's going on here?" she persisted. "Who is that—" Her words were cut off when she found a single finger laid upon her lips to silence her.

"…And he tells her: 'A rose for each year we've spent together, since kismet saw to it our paths would cross.'" The look she saw in his blue eyes in the instant before his lips touched hers, made her body twitch and her mind race. Before she could grasp and hold onto a single thought, he took the flowers and set them on the bench across from her, then took her hand and helped her down from the coach. She went more out of habit than anything.

"Mr. Steele, what are you—"

Her words stumbled to a stop, her brain hiccupping when he reached into his pocket while dropping down on a knee.

"What are you—"

And there, in Central Park, with a quartet playing and horse drawn carriage nearby, as snow fell and music was lifted into the night skies, the former thief who became Remington Steele, opened the lid of the velvet jeweler's box he held in hand…

And did what was once the unthinkable.

"Laura Holt, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

* * *

 _ **A/**_ **N: It did not snow on Christmas Eve in 1987. A little artistic licensing to enhance the story :)**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Remington had hoped to propose to Laura with all the grace and charm of Cary Grant. Now, down on bended knee with his slacks getting soaked by the snow, presenting the ring in trembling hands, and his heart pounding so hard in his chest he was certain Laura could see it through his four layers of clothing, he had the alarming sensation of feeling more like Jim Carrey than Cary Grant. The idea that they may have changed genres from an epic romance to slapstick comedy was only emphasized by Laura, who stood blinking down at him, her mouth opening and closing repeatedly, much like a fish.

His proposal had been anything but spontaneous. He'd planned it with the meticulous precision he'd employed when planning a heist, leaving no contingency, no variable, unaccounted for. He'd allotted himself weeks to convince Laura to close the office for three weeks over the holiday, but in that she'd been remarkably accommodating, agreeing readily to the suggestion, leaving him inordinately pleased. She'd been equally facile when it had come to his suggestion that they spend a goodly portion of the holiday in Aspen, had even eagerly anticipated their getaway, warming his heart further.

When Abigail had called with news of the trip she'd won to New York it had felt like providence come to call. A romantic engagement in New York City, one of the most vibrant cities in the world, was certainly a far cry from…

 _I need you to save my arse, again. How 'bout popping 'round to that trawler with me and exchanging a few vows, eh?_

It was time to do this thing right, beginning with asking Abigail for Laura's hand, which was more than a bit nerve racking given he'd never known the woman to keep a single thought to herself. He'd laid the charm on thick, then secured her silence – after he'd received her blessing – by painting a vibrant picture of the all that he had in mind. He would, after all, likely be in need of a helping hand if he wished to assure Laura wouldn't have the opportunity to stop and think for even a moment.

The woman could, after all, sniff out one of his gambits within moments of him implementing it…

Thus, he left work midday on a pair of days, allowing Laura to reach her own, natural conclusion as to where he taken himself off to, earning him a lengthy lecture on the second occasion.

"I accepted a long time ago, Mr. Steele, that I'd have to look the other way when you sneak off to the movies in the middle of the workday once a week if I wanted to get any work out of you at all, but…"

He hadn't, of course, gone to the movies, but back to their flat where he'd spent hours on the phone reserving a carriage, locating a quartet, hiring an actor, upgrading their hotel room, changing their Aspen reservations… all the small details that couldn't be done underneath Laura's nose or once they arrived in the city. He'd been patting himself on the back until last evening when he realized he'd not come up with a plan on how to get Laura into that carriage without making those little hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Thus, the night before when he and Abigail had spoken, he'd enlisted her help, for Abigail Holt could get Laura to do just about anything, even if the younger woman did so stomping her feet and throwing up her hands the entire time.

Yes, a plan flawlessly executed in the end, except for the smallest detail…

"Laura?"

Her eyes snapped to his face, and with a disbelieving shake of her head, she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. _Did he? Had he?_ Her thoughts sputtered…

"I'm sorry… I thought… Did you…" Another shake of her head. " _What did you say?_ " she finally managed, her voice going up an octave. It was on such a rare occasion that he truly managed to catch her unaware that he couldn't stop the smile that lit his face.

"I said: Laura Holt, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?" he repeated, amusement making his blue eyes twinkle. A pair of brown eyes regarded him before shifting to the ring, then immediately back to his face again.

"You're proposing?" The question only served to amuse him further. Pursing his lips, he glanced pointedly down at himself then at the ring still held before him.

"I should hope so," he teased, "Given the position I currently find myself in." She tentatively reached a hand out towards the ring, her fingertips hovering over it, before she pulled her hand back to finger her throat.

"You've never mentioned marriage before," she drew out the words while unconsciously shaking her head. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting towards the quartet whose octet of eyes were upon them, to the coachman, then back to her.

"To the contrary," he retorted, forcing a humorous tone to his voice, "I vividly recall asking you to make an honest man of me on a pair of occasions now." She frowned, her still sputtering brain trying to understand what he was alluding to. Obviously he was referring to their hasty marriage on the tuna boat, but what did he mean by a pair—

Then it clicked.

* * *

" _ **Somebody is going around killing bachelors."**_

 _ **"In that case, will you marry me, Laura?"**_

* * *

"Pfft." She flipped a dismissive hand in his direction as she paced away. "You know perfectly well what I meant. I just assumed…" She drew out the last word then let the thought trail off as her mind continued to reel. His smile began to falter, as he worried his epic romance turned slapstick comedy had just veered towards tragedy. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wondered how it was possible he was breaking out into a fine sweat whilst his teeth were on the verge of chattering from the cold.

"Assumed what?" he asked, after several long seconds of watching her pace in silence.

"I didn't even know marriage was an option, at least not in your mind," she admitted. With a quick flash of his pearly whites, and an exaggerated glance at the ring still held high, he tried to force an ease he didn't feel, at all, into his voice.

"Clearly it is." When she merely frowned before pacing away again, he swallowed hard. In a hundred fantasies of what would happen in those moments after he'd 'popped the question' – from tear-filled brown eyes regarding him while her lips uttered a breathy 'yes,' to flinging herself into his arms while shouting a resounding acceptance – not once had he envisioned the possibility that she'd reject him. Absently, he closed the ring box then stood, shoving his hands in his pockets and leaning his backside against a carriage wheel. Thoroughly confounded by her reaction, his eyes followed her as she continued to pace.

"Do you honestly believe we're ready for _marriage?_ " she asked. He shifted uncomfortably.

"Isn't that what we've been playing at this last year-and-a-half? I thought we were doing well enough. " he replied, averting his face. "Was I mistaken?" His face pinched with distress as he awaited her answer.

"You know you're not," she answered, softly, drawing his eyes back to her. The truth was, she couldn't recall a period in her life when she'd been so content, had felt so… secure – particularly in her personal life. "I suppose it's just that I believed when the two years were up, we'd stage a phony divorce for the INS then continue as we were."

"Is that what you want? To stay where we are now, never moving forward?" he questioned, finding it difficult to speak past the heart in his throat. He breathed a little easier when she shook her head.

"I meant I've worked very hard at learning how to live in the present and not to worry too much about the future," she corrected. Embracing herself, she rubbed at her arms, pacing away from him as she continued pensively, "We came very close to losing everything we'd been working towards for _four_ years because of all the 'what come next's' and ' what-if's'. I don't want that to happen again. What we have means too much to me." She turned to face him, her warm brown eyes meeting his pained blue ones. " _You_ mean too much to me." For the first time in minutes, as hope surged through him, he drew an easy breath. Pushing himself upright, he walked slowly towards her, his eyes holding hers.

"And do you recall how it is we came to be here? Hmmm?" he posed the question, quietly.

* * *

" _ **Why do we always draw the line at the bedroom door?"**_

 _ **"I don't know. I guess the timing's never been quite right. When one of us was ready, the other wasn't."**_

 _ **"But haven't we been avoiding it? Afraid of what comes after that magical moment?"**_

 _ **"What does come after?"**_

 _ **"I don't know."**_

 _ **"That's the scary part."**_

 _ **"Mmm-hmm. But we're never going to know unless we take a risk."**_

* * *

"It wasn't that we didn't know what would come after 'that magical moment' that kept us from crossing that line, but that we did," he postulated, stooping down slightly so they were eye-to-eye, "And it scared the bloody hell out of the both of us. How could it not, after a lifetime of lessons had taught us we weren't entitled to even this bit of happiness? It wasn't until we were faced with having nothing at all, that we were willing to risk everything on a leap of faith, and look how that's turned out. Hmmmm?"

She blinked at him, as though trying to compute what he'd just said, before her eyes flitted away in the direction of the quartet. Lifting her hand, she fingered her throat as her eyes darted towards the lane they'd just driven down then to the fountain and, finally, to the carriage. All of it spoke to how much planning he'd put into this proposal. Only then did her eyes alight on him again, recognizing at a glance the strain on his face, the heavy lift and fall of his chest as he breathed but it was the hope and fear she saw warring in the depths of that she latched on to.

"Yes."After minutes had ticked by and his concern she might actually turn him down had mounted, it was his brain that stumbled this time. He moistened his lips and blinked several times at her.

"Yes?"

"Yes," she repeated with firm conviction.

Still he couldn't quite believe. Then, there in the depths of her brown eyes, he found the warm acceptance that had drawn him to her from the very beginning and his lingering insecurity vanished in that instant. She squeaked, then laughed, in surprise when he wrapped an arm around her waist, crushing her to him, and, with a hand cupping the back of her head, sealed his lips over hers. The kiss, in both its intensity and thoroughness left her clutching his upper arms in her hands. When their lips parted, he kept her head palmed in his hand.

"Are you certain?" She drew a hand through his hair, joy glimmering in her eyes.

"As certain as I was in Mexico about… other matters… And look how that worked out. So, why not?" He basked in the warmth of her optimism.

"Why not," he repeated, then presented her with a quick, hard, touch of his lips against her forehead before he leaned his head down to rest his forehead against hers. "Then marry me, Laura," he repeated, softly, his hand squeezing her waist. "Marry me, here, on New Year's Eve."

Much as he'd anticipated all the possible impediments to his planned proposal, so too had he prepared an argument for every reason she might come up with to delay. He wasn't surprised when she tilted back her head to study his face, gauging his sincerity.

And then she shocked the hell out of him, in the very best of ways.

"What the hell," she smiled up at him, linking her arms around his neck. "Let's be bold…"


	9. Chapter 9

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 material. If under 18 or uncomfortable with such subject matter, please continue to chapter 10 (when it is published).**_

* * *

Chapter 9

As Laura stepped inside their suite at the Plaza, she pressed a finger to her lips, indicating Remington should enter as quietly as possible.

"It looks like Santa's already visited," she whispered, indicating the tree with a finger as he closed the door. He peeked his head around her shoulder as he lay a hand on the small of her back, escorting her towards the stairs.

"And it appears Father Christmas is feeling _very_ generous this year," he observed in an undertone, as they began their ascent.

"And the stores of New York are _very_ grateful," she quietly laughed.

"Cleaned off the shelves, did she?" His laughter joined hers as he stepped around her to open the door to their bedroom. She gave him a wry look as she stepped into the room.

"Let's just say Donald won't be feeling very jolly—" She came to a standstill as he closed the door. "You must really want to see that lingerie," she quipped in disbelief, as she tugged her gloves off. He leaned forward, his lips hovering near her ear.

"Desperately so," he hummed, his warm breath tickling her ear, "But I'm afraid I arranged for the tree weeks ago." Straightening, he removed his gloves as well and tossed them on a nearby chair, then shrugging out of his coat, hung it on the back of the desk chair.

"Surely you're not implying you predicted Laurie Beth…" she left him to finish the thought for himself.

"We're on holiday with six of your relatives, and outnumbered three-to-one. The only better odds we'd be interrupted in some manner or other were if Mildred, herself, were here," he explained as he began to help her from her coat. His eyes widened in surprise. "Good Lord, Laura, you're soaked straight through!" She smiled at him over her shoulder as she walked towards the tree.

"A hazard of a proposal in the snow, Mr. Steele?" she suggested. He retrieved a pair of hangers from the closet and, picking up their coats, stepped into the bathroom.

"Yes," he chuckled. "It appears even I can't outwit Mother Nature," he called to her as he hung their coats on the shower rod.

"The tree is lovely," she complimented, fingering a crystal ornament.

"Not half as lovely as you," he hummed, his nimble fingers relieving her hair of the pins holding it in an upsweep.

"This suite, it was you, wasn't it?" she queried, as he set the pins on the bedside table. He eased an arm around her waist behind.

"A worthy setting in which to celebrate first an engagement then a marriage," he confessed, capturing her left hand in his and lifting it to his mouth to buss her knuckles above the engagement ring – a two-carat flawless radiant cut channel set ring that was elegant in its simplicity. She left her hand aloft, resting it against his cheek.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what else you have up your sleeve." He shifted to scatter a trail of kisses along the column of her neck as he spoke.

"You've an appointment morning after next at Kleinfeld, which the hotel assures me is _the_ place in the City to shop for a wedding dress." He gave the days ahead some thought as he nibbled the lobe of her ear. "It seems the name Remington Steele holds some sway even in New York City," he resumed his attention to her neck, "I've booked what I have been promised is a lovely, historic chapel in Times Square and have secured the services of a minister to wed us."

Turning in his arms, she buried the fingers of one hand in his hair while tilting back her head to give him more access, sighing when he nuzzled a whiskered face into the crook of her neck. Company downstairs or not, there had been no doubt in her mind they'd make love this evening, their antics in the carriage ride back to the hotel from Central Park guaranteed as much.

Not to mention there was an engagement to be celebrated.

She laid a palm against his chest and pressed lightly, then waited for him to look at her.

"I'm just going to go slip into—"

"Another night," he insisted, drawing her close again and palming the back of her head, he rained kisses over her face and lips while backing towards the bed. "There are only two things I wish you to wear this evening: Your ring… and me." He sat down on the edge of the bed, and with his hands clasping her bottom, eased her forward to stand between his legs. As his hands appreciated the gentle curve of her waist to her hips, she drew her fingers through his hair in a way only a lover would do, then dragged them over his shoulders before they grasped an end of his bow tie, and tugged.

"Then it would seem to me you're overdressed, Mr. Steele."

Bending down her head, she caressed his lips with hers, as his hand reached for the zipper of her dress…

* * *

Braced on his elbows over Laura's slim frame, Remington touched his lips to her throat, then, still panting slipped from her body and shifted slightly downward, before collapsing against her, laying his head between the gentle swell of her breasts. He took pleasure in the still rapid rise and fall of her chest and the staccato beat of her heart, knowing he was responsible for her current state. Flinging one arm over her eyes, Laura's other hand found the damp hair of his head and stroked her fingers through it, absently, as she tried to restart the brain that had sputtered then stalled in answer to Remington's sensual assault on her body. Always an ardent and giving lover, he'd been particularly attentive this evening, determined to wrest every ounce of pleasure from her body that he could. The result had been a trio of mind-blowing climaxes that left her body still twitching… and already itching for more.

It had taken only a handful of nights sharing a bed with Remington for Laura to realize he not only used lovemaking to express his feelings in a way he might never be able to with words but that how he made love to her was choreographed by his mood. A lighthearted, buoyant Remington meant there would be a good deal of chatter, laughter and playing involved, while a pensive, troubled Remington meant a prolonged round of lovemaking in which few words were spoken as he lost himself in her body and her touch. A Remington whose jealousy had been aroused meant his lovemaking would take on a possessive edge, keeping her body molded closely to his, prolonging every kiss, every touch, determined to leave her a mass of quivering flesh and nerves, a potent reminder she was his and his alone. And then there was the Remington of this evening: The attentive lover who showered her with supple kisses, whispering touches and breathy compliments as he lingered endlessly in his worship of her body, bound and determined to make her understand, to make her _feel_ his love for her. These nights would often last until the sun breached the horizon and they fell into an exhausted, sated sleep.

Not that she was complaining, mind you, for any woman would be lucky to have such a devoted lover… but one also willing to turn the reins over to her at any time she wished? Well, that was a rarity she could appreciate.

As passion stalled synapses began to fire, her brain kicked into gear. Dropping the arm that had been covering her eyes, she held up her hand and studied the ring that had taken up residence there. He'd been inordinately fascinated with her hands this evening and if the possessive glint in his eyes when he'd looked up at her through his lashes was any indication, she suspected she knew the reason why.

The ring: Tangible proof that he was bound to her – and she to him - in some very real way.

Her brow knitted together and her hand stalled in his hair. But did he really understand the full implications of what he'd asked? For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, _until death they do part?_ The proposal, straight from a scene in one of his movies: The carriage ride, the park, a quartet, flowers, and him down on one knee. A wedding in a historical chapel on New Year's Eve, before the stroke of midnight. All of it would appeal to the romantic in him. But had he considered the practicalities? 'Until death' was a long commitment for anyone, let alone a man who'd spent a lifetime rarely spending a mere few months in one place, as one—

Remington suddenly shifted, stretching his lean frame over hers and pressing her into the mattress as his fingers dove into her hair. _Somebody's found their second wind, in record time_ , she mused. Merriment danced in her eyes as his blue eyes flickered over her face.

"Laura, I can't quite believe we're betrothed," he murmured, tracing the curve of her cheek and jaw with the back of a pair of fingers. With widened eyes and a big smile, she fingered back the unruly lock of hair that fell over his forehead.

"With a proposal like _that_ , how could I possibly say no?" she teased, fondly, drawing a splayed hand down his back. "You must have gone to a good deal of trouble to arrange everything," she remarked in a casual tone, although her intent was quite purposeful. He grinned down at her.

"You know my fondness for…" he lifted his brows "…worthy settings." He appeared confused when she wedged her palms between them then pushed, but he complied anyway, stretching out on his side next to her. The grin reappeared when she slung a leg over his hips, and a soft hand guided him to lay face down on the bed. She settled herself on his bum, then whispered her fingers through his hair and down his back, drawing from him a hum of appreciation.

"I do," she drew out the words, dragging her fingers through his hair again as she bent down to draw her mouth over the flesh of his shoulder. Shifting beneath her to get more comfortable, he closed his eyes, knowing what she had in mind. Since they'd become lovers, she'd done such on a handful-and-a-half of occasions – this part seduction, part massage routine – and he'd found it to be not only one of the most sensuous acts he'd ever experienced, but also one of the most intimate. She, on the other hand, knew he was inclined to be more open when she muddled his senses with touches both loving and arousing. "Still, I can't help wondering when you had the time to arrange it all." Her fingertips traced his sides and she smiled as he drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly in response.

"I believe the answer to the when of it involved a stern lecture on drawing a line on my sneaking off more than once weekly," he provided, lips twitching with an amused smile, imagining she was scrunching her face with displeasure at herself at that moment, which she was. She mentally shook loose her contrition and focused on the task at hand. Bending over, she trailed supple kisses over his shoulder again, her eyes honed in on the fingers that flexed against the sheets.

"So Mother's announcement of the trip is what inspired you to…" she leaned further in and lightly nip at his ear before whispering "… _pop…"_ she sat back up and drew her hands down his back again "…the question?"

"To the contrary, only the locale changed not the intent," he laid down the trail of breadcrumbs and waited for her to follow. It didn't take long.

"Aspen?" she guessed. "You were going to propose in Aspen?" Reaching back, he captured her left hand in his and drew it forward, then pressed his lips to her palm in silent answer. Above him, she blinked hard and gave her head a small shake. Reclaiming her hand, she kneaded his shoulders. "But you started talking about closing the office for the holidays in September," she noted aloud, a bit dazed by the news. In celebration of his thirty-fifth birthday, she'd whisked him off to a secluded bungalow at one of the better Maui resorts. The last night they were there, they'd been walking on the beach, when he'd quietly squeezed her hand and suggested stealing a bit of time for themselves at the holiday. "You've been giving this some thought for a while then," she surmised, receiving another hum of confirmation.

She mulled the thought, as she focused on the man beneath her, dragging the tip of her tongue along his skin, blowing softly on the wetness and trailing kisses and soft nips over his flesh as her fingers danced through his hair, over his shoulders backs and sides. He luxuriated in her attentions, alternately trembling and grunting his approval at her ministrations, his breaths coming more quickly, growing more shallow as his ardor built. When she estimated they'd come close to the point where he'd flip her over and take back the control, she sat up and returned to the gentle, teasing strokes of her fingertips against his skin. He shuddered beneath her, and voiced his disapproval.

"Lau-ra," he groaned.

"All in good time, Mr. Steele," she replied with a throaty little laugh. "Have I ever told you the story of when I knew that you'd unequivocally become Remington Steele?" He looked back over his shoulder at her, a single brow cocked in question.

"Can't say that you have." Shifting to kneel at his side, with a gentle hand, she urged him to his back. He caught her hips, easing her down, his eyes nearly crossing at the sensation of her thighs nestling his burgeoning erection between them. She drew splayed hands up and over the familiar planes of his abdomen and chest.

"It was the night I told you I thought we needed to take some time apart." Palming his cheek in her hand, she bent down and teased his lips with hers, wandering away when he pressed an elbow into the mattress and pushed himself upwards as his hand cupped the back of her head in anticipation of taking charge of the kiss and deepening it. A smile flitted across her lips as they slipped away.

"You realized I'd become Remington Steele and that made you decide we needed time apart?" he asked as he fell back to the bed, thoroughly baffled.

"No," she breathed, as she peppered soft, lingering kisses to his cheek and jaw. "Not before, when, as in as I was telling you… my decision." Leaning back, she fondly fingered back the lock of hair lying on his forehead. "Your eyes can never lie to me," she told him softly, then looked away, staring at the wall before her. "Confusion… hurt… rejection," she whispered, "Then the look that I couldn't let go of, no matter how hard I tried to convince myself I hadn't seen it…"

"What look?" he prodded when she appeared lost in thought. She blinked a pair of times then looked at him with regret clouding her brown eyes.

"Loss," she decided, with a singular, definitive nod of her head. "Our license was in tatters at our feet, so our professional life was gone, and by suggesting we take time apart on a personal level, I'd severed all ties: Ties to me, ties to the Agency… and in doing so, I'd taken away Remington Steele. You confirmed as much after I found you in London."

* * *

"… _**when it seemed our time together had come to an end, I realized that Remington Steele was just another name I had borrowed. And if I had to give it back, I should have to replace it with something that was truly mine."**_

* * *

Picking up her hand, he pressed his lips to her palm, then lay it against his chest in hint. The sobriety of the moment was broken with the gesture. She laughed quietly and twirled her fingers through the thick matting of hair on his chest.

"Better?" she queried, with a jaunty lift of her brows and an amused smile.

"Marginally," he quipped. She ran her tongue around her mouth and humor lit her eyes at the impertinent response and its implied challenge.

"Is that so?" Leaning forward, she brushed the tips of her breasts against his chest, making his body twitch. Wrapping her in his arms, he held her firmly in place as her mouth began wandering over the flesh of his jaw and neck.

"I know what you mean," he informed her, as though there had not been a lull in the conversation. "I once believed when it came time to move on, Remington Steele would just be another role I had played, had even said as much to Mildred not long after she joined us…"

* * *

" _ **Oh, I know, I appear to be the super sleuth, with all the answers, dapper, debonair, worldly-but it's all an act. One conceived by Miss Holt that I work very hard to maintain in order to support this agency's image."**_

* * *

"Yet after I left, I couldn't shed who it was I'd become, as I'd done a thousand times before with such ease. Richard Blaine, Michael O'Leary, Douglas Quintaine… even in the most familiar of roles used many times before, it was Remington Steele's voice that I heard in my thoughts, when I spoke." A hand drawn through her hair had her pausing in her ministrations and lifting her head to look at him. "Your voice." He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, then buried his hand in her hair. "My God, I missed your lovely, lilting voice."

Held spellbound by the sincerity blazing in his blue eyes, she went willingly when he drew her lips to his. He kissed her thoroughly, tenderly, trying to assuage the ache in his gut that had reappeared with the memory of those days without her. Her fingers clutched at his shoulders, then burrowed in his hair, as she instinctively pressed closer, wanting more. When he ended the kiss, she was left more than a little dazed and he took advantage, hauling her upwards to draw the peak of a breast in his mouth. She gasped and pulled away when he began to suckle upon the sensitive flesh.

"Not yet," she admonished, breathily, then shifted downward again as he half-groaned, half chuckled. Still, he couldn't resist a caress of the shapely cheek of her bottom… or dragging a pair of fingers along the damp flesh at the apex of her legs.

"Mr. Steele," she growled, then dug a pair of fingers beneath a rib and tickled. He simultaneously barked a laughed and tried to lurch away from the touch. He flung his arms open wide and let them fall to the bed.

"You win, you win," he conceded, breathlessly, "Although I must protest your use of my weaknesses to have your way about things." She grinned down at him, unapologetically.

"If you'd _listen_ ," she cupped his cheek in her hand, and trailed kisses along his jaw on the opposite side, "I wouldn't have to and I could use your… weaknesses…" she touched her lips to his "…to bring you _pleasure._ " She caressed beneath one ear as she nibbled on the lobe of the other. He groaned low in his throat and him arms came up again, so his hands could splay across her back. Closing his eyes, he idly stroked her back as her fingers and mouth worked in concert to evoke exquisite pleasure from every nerve ending she came in contact with.

"Laura, do you remember our chameleon – Frank Dannon?" Her lips paused at the base of his neck and she sat up, flipping her head and sending her hair over her shoulder. She raked her nails lightly across his chest, while bestowing a bemused smile on him.

"A man with five wives and five lives?" she asked with widened eyes and drawing out each word. "How could I forget?" She leaned down to kiss him soundly, then dragged her lips down his throat as her hands settled in to tease his nipples. "Why do you ask?" His fingers flexed against her skin and he moaned his approval when she drew the tender flesh of his collarbone into her mouth and suckled.

"I've no idea what brought him to mind other than I'd been giving marriage serious consideration for near on—" She stilled against him, keying him in to his near gaffe. _Careful, old sport,_ he reminded himself silently, while laughing aloud. He couldn't possibly allow Laura the upper hand by inadvertently revealing exactly how long marriage had been on his mind. "—for a spell," he corrected, grinning at the puff of disgruntled air that passed her lips.

"Exactly how long is 'a spell'?" she murmured, trailing kissed over his sternum, then circling his nipple with the tip of her tongue. He didn't want to share? Well, she was perfectly capable of playing a little dirty to get what she was after. She shifted slightly and drew his nipple into her mouth while a hand teasingly made its way south.

"A while," he retorted, capturing her hand before it reached its target. She snickered against his chest, knowing she'd been caught, and his quiet laugh joined hers. "Ah-ah-ah," he warned, returning her hand to the safer territory of his chest, "Unless you wish this… seduction… to come to an abrupt end, you might wish to put that thought out of your mind," he advised, humor tracing through his words. Not too proud to acknowledge she'd been caught, she sat up and gave him a dimpled smile.

"Go on," she encouraged, conceding the point. She shifted backwards until her bottom rested against his thighs then began to rhythmically drag her fingers up and down his torso, taking a side road every now and then to twirl around a nipple, to tease a belly button, to lean down and press a kiss against his flesh. He closed his eyes, his hands alternately stroking her backside and grasping at her slim frame.

* * *

 _ **"Suddenly you saw you life was different from that of most men. You didn't have to be trapped in a single identity. No one could tell you what to do."**_

* * *

"Hmmm," she mulled, lifting her eyes towards the ceiling as she considered the thought, "I suppose I never considered the parallel between your lives." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Although," she continued, breezily, "I had better warn you: It won't go very well for _you_ …" she poked him in the chest "…should I discover you have five wives tucked away out there, somewhere." The comment earned a bark of laughter and a wide smile.

"Don't be ridiculous, Laura," he grinned, clasping the back of her neck with a hand, "There's only one woman I've ever wished to be wed to." He drew her down, and kissed her soundly, a trio of times.

"So, what about Frank?" she wondered, stringing another trail of nips and kisses, down his neck and over his collarbone.

"Recalling our conversation, I realized I never felt 'trapped' in the identity of Remington Steele…" He knew by the sudden tension in her back that he'd caught her undivided attention, not that she'd acknowledge as much.

"Oh?" she feigned nonchalance as she established a teasing pattern of stroking her had up and down his torso, each downward caress ending at a bit more southerly point.

"Mmmm," he confirmed in a hum, allowing her to believe she'd gotten one past him. "To the contrary, I found your Remington Steele… Freeing, I suppose you could say." She didn't bother with subterfuge this time, sitting back up and peering at him with open curiosity.

" _Freeing?_ " she asked, in disbelief. She fingered her cheek and pursed her lips, then mused, "Funny, I seem to recall you reciting an endless litany of ways you found the role too confining." A wide smile split his face: Only Laura Holt would dare to question his veracity at such a time. Pulling her down to him, he wrapped his arms around her then rolled them over. Bracing himself on his arms, he fingered back her hair, then pursed his lips comically and tipped his head back and forth.

"Granted your version of the man was a bit boring-"

"Boring?" she protested. "I'll have you—" Turning the tables on her, and using her own tactics against her, he covered her lips with his, smothering the rest of the thought. He teased her lips with soft, undemanding caresses before slipping his tongue past her lips, and swirling it with hers in a decadent dance. Only when she buried her hand in his hair and arched upward with a hum, did his lip flee hers.

"Boring with his constant committee meetings and tedious work ethic," he finished, as he scattered soft kisses over her face. "But I discovered I found the idea of helping people, bestowing a bit of justice, remarkably appealing." He briefly returned to her lips, then shifted to his side, opening her body fully to his touch. And he made use of the sudden lack of restrictions, drawing a hand over her side from breast-to-hip while his mouth found the tender flesh of her neck. "And that becoming the man allowed me unrestricted access in my pursuit of you. Well… what objection could I possibly have to that? Hmmm?"

"What objection, indeed," she breathed when his hand strolled upwards to cup her breast.

"It took our disastrous trip to Cannes to realize just how much I'd come to value this life," he continued as he teased the tip of her breast and tasted her freckles. "I not only liked the man I'd become – despite my occasional stumbles – but I enjoyed knowing I'd see you each morning at the office, and, should I be fortunate enough, I might spend time with you in the evening, as well. I'd grown inordinately fond of coming home each night to a flat I'd put my personal touches on and to the kitchen I'd designed… To the same bed I'd been sleeping in for years," He pressed up on and elbow then leaned down to kiss her again, wagging his brows at her when their lips parted "Although I'd have been far happier had a certain young woman been sharing that bed with me."

"Good things come to those who wait, Mr. Steele," she retorted with a smug smile and a jaunty lift of her brows. He smiled at her, a devilish glint sparkling in his eyes.

"Indeed, they do, Miss Holt," he hummed, then shifted to take a pert nipple between his lips. Her back arched and she drew in a sharp breath as he teased the sensitive nub with the tip of his tongue. He toyed mercilessly with her breasts, his mouth moving from one to the other then back to the first again as he lay long, sensual strokes over the bared flesh of her petite frame. He waited until her fingers were tangled in his hair and she writhed beneath him, then, with a breast in his mouth and another in hand, he carefully positioned himself over her and his mouth began a slow descent, while a pair of talented fingers tweaked and pluck at a nipple to keep her distracted. It might have worked, if not for the sly smile she spied in the instant before he dropped a kiss on her throbbing mound.

"Not yet," she growled, grasping his head and drawing him upwards, then with a sure pair of hands against his shoulders, flipped him to his back while he laughed – a laugh that sputtered to a stop when she straddled him again and, with purpose trapped his erection in her hot, wet silky vee.

"Laura," he panted, taking her hips in hand, encouraging to move just a bit so that he might bury himself in her warmth. She was having none of it.

"I need to say something to you," she puffed, as she bent over and peppered his face with kisses. He groaned his disapproval.

"Later," he insisted, clasping her head in his hands and drawing her lips to his. He kissed her with such longing that for the span of a pair of heartbeats she forgot her intent. Digging her hands into the mattress, she pushed upwards and parted their lips apart with a pop.

"Listen to me," she panted, then groaned when his hand claimed a breast. Instinctively, she thrust her hips, driving the head of his shaft against a most sensitive bundle of nerves. Sensation ricocheted to her very core, and dropping her forehead to his shoulder moaned, "Oh, God." She was perilously close the edge and ached to shift ever so slightly and take his body inside hers.

"I won't be able to if you keep doing _that_ ," he rasped, as he drew his thumb over the tip of her nipple. A gasp, another thrust of her hips that left both of them twitching.

"Then you," she swiped his hand away from her breast, "Have to stop doing _that."_ Head hanging, she fought for control, but found her eyes drawn to the desperate look on his face while his hands clutched her hips in an attempt to keep them still. "I don't need it," she breathed, then covered her lips with his.

"Need what?" he managed around short breaths when their lips parted. His eyes met hers and he drew her lips back to his again.

"A name," she breathed, as they exchanged kisses, "A piece of paper." She hummed as their lips met again then trembled above him and closed her eyes, when his lips left hers to caress a path down the column of her neck. "Remington Steele, Johnny Todd, Richard Blaine or Harry, married or not married, I love you. I—" Her words broke off when he crushed his lips fiercely to hers.

"And I, you," he pledged, fervently. She nodded her head rapidly in acknowledgment, then opened her eyes and looked at him.

"I know." She drew in a sharp breath then panted when a wandering hand whispered over her bottom, and her hips thrust again. "You don't have to marry me," she announced. He captured her face in his palms, and lifted her head until their eyes met.

"Ah, but I do," he dissented, with a smile as he dragged a hand through her locks. "It's a requirement for some new roles l wish to take on." Pushing up on an elbow, he kissed her lustily, leaving her blinking and all rational thought preparing to go on hiatus.

"What roles?" she managed to ask, as she shifted to take his shaft in hand, giving it a firm pair of strokes.

"Lau-ra." He breathed heavy and fast at the feeling of her hand wrapped around, stroking him.

"What roles?" she repeated, her face a mask of concentration as she twirled her thumb around the engorged head, then lifted up on her knees to position him.

"Husband," he gasped, a tone of desperation in his voice, some small part of him wondering if he didn't answer would she back away. "Expectant fa—" Her heart stumbled and stalled when she realized what he was about to say. Unprepared to have that discussion yet, not even sure how she felt about it, she sank down on him, taking his entire length in a single stroke then bent over him, planting her hands in the mattress on either side of his head, her hair fanning out around them.

"No more talking, Remington," she whispered, then merged her lips with his…

* * *

Spooned around Laura's body, Remington's thoughts grew hazy as sleep beckoned him to surrender. The woman might well be the death of him one day. The thought conjured up a memory that made the corners of his lips twitch upwards in the early vestiges of a smile that he didn't have the wherewithal to complete.

* * *

" _ **But I'm sure you know how she is. Impulsive. Uninhibited. Absurdly passionate."**_

* * *

Impulsive. Uninhibited. She was both of those things between the sheets. But absurdly passionate? Mmmm, never that. Delightfully, intoxicatingly passionate, he corrected. Just as she was his perfect match out of bed, as he'd always suspected, she was his perfect match in bed as well. In his estimation, if he spent the rest of his days loving her, it still wouldn't be enough. He unconsciously nuzzled the top of her head with his cheek, as his eyes rolled backward and the sandman swept him away.

Only to be woken what seemed like seconds later when Laura suddenly jerked then stiffened in his arms.

Adrenaline rushed into his bloodstream and his eyes flew open, instinctively searching for the room for potential threats.

"What? What is it?" he hurriedly asked, pushing up on his elbow to look around the rest of the room.

"Mildred's going to _kill_ us!" she bemoaned.

Confused, he turned to look down at her with knitted brows and parted lips, then a split second later her meaning clicked in his head, and he slumped back down, closed his eyes then wrapped his arm around her waist.

"Mmmm," he agreed with a hum. "Hopefully I have a little something up my sleeve to take the edge off that murderous impulse…"

* * *

 _ **A/N: No, the mention of Kleinfeld in this chapter is not a nod at Say Yes to the Dress! In fact, my mother bought her wedding dress there decades ago :)**_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

"Merry Christmas, everyone," Laura greeted, as she came down the open stairwell, Remington following her with a hand placed on the small of her back.

They'd been awakened shortly after seven-thirty by the squeals of six-year-old Laurie Beth, followed by shouts and whoops from Danny and Mindy. Laura showered first, then exchanged places with Remington while she dried her hair. A scant twenty-five minutes later – she clad in red silk shirt with cream slacks and he in brown tweed slacks, white dress shirt and a pair of bracers that matched her shirt – they were walking down the stairs, having become well-versed, across the years, at preparing themselves for the day quickly and efficiently.

"Merry Christmas, darling," Abigail returned, standing to plant a kiss on her daughter's cheek.

"Happy Christmas, Abigail," Remington offered, taking both of her offered hands in his and leaning in to buss her on the cheek.

"Coffee for you, Laura," Frances announced, setting the mug on a coffee table, "And tea for you, Remington."

"France, you are truly an angel of mercy," Remington extoled, most sincerely. If there was a price to be paid for their antics the night prior, it came in the form of eyes that felt like sandpaper, a sluggish brain and a body that ached in the most delightful of ways.

"Look, Aunt Laura," Laurie Beth demanded, eagerly, as she charged across the room with an armful of dolls, large and small, and a trio of stuffed animals. "Santa brought me Barbie and the Rockers, P.J. Sparkles, Pound Puppies and Teddy Ruxpin! Oh, and Colorforms, a Speak-n-Spell and a Lite Brite!"

"I got—" Mindy called from across the room as she dug through her stash, then with a glance at Laurie Beth corrected, "Santa brought me nail polish, perfume, a Make-It-And-Bake-It oven, Fashion Plates, an electronic journal, earrings and a boom box – and it's pink! See?" She held it up for all to admire. "And Mom said since… Santa… brought me the earrings I can get my ears pierced when we get home!"

"I wanna get my ears pierced, too!" Laurie Beth protested.

" _You're_ too little!" Mindy declared with an air of superiority.

"Am not!" Laurie Beth shouted.

"Are too!"

"Laurie Beth, Mindy, is this how we behave and on Christmas of all days?" Frances scolded.

"Sorry," the two girls said in chorus, although the reprimand didn't prevent Laurie Beth from sticking her tongue out at Mindy when Frances turned her head.

"Danny, what did… Santa… bring you?" Laura inquired.

"A new baseball glove and basketball shoes, a remote control truck, an erector set and a Walkman, but none of that sissy music that Mindy likes," he answered.

"George Michael and Michael Jackson isn't sissy music, Danny!" Mindy objected.

"Uh-huh!" he shot back, then informed Laura, "I'm into Rock: U2, Guns N' Roses, Springsteen. Mindy likes that bubblegum stuff." He rolled his eyes, expressing how he felt about the genre.

"Mom!" Mindy complained, while Remington turned to Laura, his mouth hovering near her ear.

"A single suitcase?" Remington asked in an undertone. "A private charter might be more fitting." Laura smiled at him, and patted his leg, in both agreement and as a silent admonition that he might not want to announce his thoughts publicly.

"I have to admit, I don't share Danny's taste in music," Frances shared with Remington and Laura, shaking her head. "I mean all that racket and what is it with all the long hair? But that George Michael Mindy's always going on about? His music's not too bad." She gave Laura a smile that suggested a confidence shared between sisters. "And he's quite the looker."

"Ewwwwww! Mommmmmmm!" Mindy vociferously objected.

"I kind of enjoy Springsteen," Donald offered.

"Laura, what did Remington get you?" Frances wondered. In the chair nearby Laura, Abigail scooted slightly forward, in anticipation of the 'big announcement'.

"I have no idea," Laura answered, honestly. "Our gifts are upstairs. We haven't opened them yet."

"Mmm, I may something tucked away down here," Remington announced as he rose, then feigned forgetfulness. "Can't leave a thing out with Laura about, you know," he expounded, jovially "Far too curious. Can't help herself."

"She never could stand to see an unopened present with her name on it," Abigail concurred. The comment caught Remington's full attention.

"Is that so?" he asked, nudging the conversation ahead. As taciturn as Laura liked the accuse him of being, she was equally as stingy with the details of her past, and he was no less curious than she.

"That's not true!" Laura denounced.

"Why, one year she opened the end of every present under the tree to find out what was inside, just hoping no one noticed," her Mother continued at Remington's encouragement, ignoring her daughter's rebuke.

"Mother, I was eight!" Laura objected, then turned to look at Remington. "The only thing I wanted was a baseball glove and bat. And there was nothing—" she cut a hand through the air "Under that tree resembling either."

"You should have asked Santa," Laurie Beth interjected.

" _I did_ ," Laura replied, in a treacly tone while wearing a patently false, "But he didn't get my list," the last was said with an accusatory slant of her eyes toward her mother. "So, he brought me what he believed all little girls should want: Barbies and a Tiny Tears doll."

"It was such a cute doll," Abigail enthused looking from adult-to-adult in the room. "She came with a little wardrobe and cried real tears. Most little girls would have been thrilled."

"I wasn't like _most little girls_ , Mother," Laura felt the need to point out. Abigail turned her head and looked at Remington.

"Her father went right out the next day and bought a bat and glove for her," she explained with a disapproving voice. "That man was always spoiling her. Why I remember—"

"Frances," Laura nearly shouted her sister's name at mention of her father, "What did Donald get you for Christmas?"

"Oh, my present is scheduled to be delivered the day after we get back to LA," Frances replied hesitantly, looking at Abigail to see her reaction to being interrupted then continuing when it appeared no reprimand was to follow. "You know that new washer and dryer I've been wanting?" Frances smile was radiant, while Laura mused if _she_ were to received a washer and dryer for Christmas, Remington would be making friends with the sofa for a long, long time to come.

"How wonderful for you," she congratulated, then turned to her brother-in-law. "And Donald, may I ask what Frances got you?" His face lit up at the question.

"A real beauty of a lawn mower: Self-propelled with an easy release bag," he bragged. "It's gonna be a real back saver, that's for sure."

"How… exciting," Laura offered. The idea of giving… or wanting… appliances and lawn equipment for Christmas simply escaped her. Thank God, her Mr. Steele was anything _but_ a practical gift giver.

"Ah, yes," the man of her thoughts heralded with relish. "Here we are." He discretely left one of the packages where it had been hidden. He'd seen Laura pale at mention of her father and thought better of pulling out a reminder that could possibly encourage Abigail to continue on in that vein. He sat back down next to her and held out held out the famous blue box with silver lettering wrapped in a white bow, "Happy Christmas, Laura." Her eyes flickered from the box to his face and back to the box again. Nervously, she rubbed her palms against her slacks and began to stand.

"Let me just go upstairs—" A hand on her arm saw her stalling when she'd risen halfway.

"Later," he insisted. Her eyes flitted from Donald, to Frances, to Abigail. All eyes were upon her – even Mindy had perked up at the sudden silence. Wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, she sat back down.

"Alright," she drew out the word, holding out a hand when he offered her the box again. He leaned in close, appearing to be bussing her on the cheek.

"This and the coat were meant to be betrothal gifts," he whispered. Her eyes widened at the admission, and she grew absurdly more anxious. With a glance at him again, she untied the bow, opened the box and removed the jeweler's box within. Drawing in a long soft breath, she slowly opened it then silently let out her breath.

"They're beautiful," she complimented, lifting her eyes to meet his. "Thank you." She brushed her lips against his cheek, as Frances leaned forward precariously to try to get a peek.

"Well, don't keep us in suspense, Laura," she cajoled. Closing the box, Laura held it out to her sister.

"You may as well see for yourself." Frances took the offering eagerly, snapping the box open immediately.

"Oh, my," she breathed. "I've never owned a pair of diamond earrings." The solitaire drop earrings sported a radiant cut solitaire in each that were identical to the ring on her hand. Donald laughed at the suggestion.

"Where would you wear them, Frannie? In the carpool line at the kids' schools?" He held out a hand in Laura and Remington's direction. "We're not Laura and Remington, hobnobbing with society, going to the ballet, policeman's ball's and stuff."

"Oh… well… now… we don't hob—" Laura tried to step in, worried Frances would break out in hysterical sobs at any second and flee the room.

"The fanciest place we've gone to in the last three years is the dental convention," Donald continued to defend.

"Well, that is true," Frances conceded, much to Laura's shock. "Still, it would be nice…" She sighed, regretfully.

"So, I'll get you a pair for your birthday instead of a new stove," Donald promised.

"But the stove was five years old when we moved into the house, and I use the stove every day," Frances argued. "When would I ever wear diamond earrings?" Laura's jaw fell open.

"Frances, you _just said—"_ she began, aghast, but a knock at the door of the suite stalled the conversation.

"I imagine that will be breakfast," Remington announced, standing.

"You ordered breakfast? When did you have time to order breakfast?" Laura wondered. He looked back over his shoulder at her as he walked towards the door.

"While you were in the shower. Didn't take but a minute," he replied, then swung open the door. "Come in, come in," he ushered in the two bellhops bearing carts laden with food. "I imagine the dining room should be sufficient."

"If you'll excuse me, I'm think I'll give Remington a hand," Laura informed the remaining three adults. She was halfway across the room when Frances called her back.

"Laura, don't forget your earrings." Laura doubled back.

"I imagine I should put them up before we eat," she considered aloud, as she held her hand out for the box. The living room was a whirlwind of wrapping paper and empty boxes. Should the earrings get lost amongst-

"Laura, is that what I think it is?" Frances demanded to know, her voice pitching two octaves higher. Laura cringed as Frances grabbed her hand. She hadn't planned on making any announcements until after the Christmas morning festivities were over… or maybe after lunch… or dinner. The truth was, she wasn't overly eager to subject herself to the multitude of backhanded compliments from Abigail that would sure come upon learning her youngest daughter had 'finally caught herself a good one.' Steeling herself, she straightened her shoulders.

"Yes. Yes, it is." She scrunched her face as Frances let out a shriek that Laura was quite certain could be heard in Times Square and bolted from her seat to smother Laura in a hug. Frances's joyous cry caught the attention of all in the room and brought Remington scrambling back into the living room. Grinning, as he assumed the obvious, he shoved his hands in his pockets and made his way towards Laura.

"What's going on?" Donald asked, unsure why he was getting to his feet, and completely confounded by his suddenly ecstatic, and now teary-eyed wife.

"When? When did he ask?" Frances demanded to know.

"Why, on their carriage ride last night, of course, Frances, dear," Abigail answered on Laura's behalf, in a blissfully serene tone. Standing, she approached her daughters, intent on offering her youngest her congratulations. Laura reared back in Frances's embrace and stared at her mother, shocked.

"You knew?" she asked, in stunned disbelief.

"For weeks," Abigail confirmed, then turned to Remington who'd reached the group, to pat him on the cheek with a hand. "Such a nice boy. He called to ask my permission to marry you." Laura saw red at the news and pulled herself from Frances's embrace, then faced Remington, plopping her fisted hands on her fists.

"You asked _permission_? Did you barter for the amount of livestock you'd get in exchange—" He bestowed her with an amused smile – one she fiercely wished to wipe right off his face.

"Let's try to remember, Laura," Remington stepped in, taking her hand and patting it between his, "I'm not only European, but Daniel also spent a good portion of my life drilling proper etiquette into my head, and according to tradition, a man should ask the father – or mother, as the case may be – for the hand of the woman he intends to marry." Lips parted, prepared to dress him down fully, her mouth clamped shut. For all his faults, despite his willingness to break rules as he saw fit, the man could be shockingly traditional, a throwback to another time even. Given it was from the same place that these chivalrous ideals popped up from every now was also from where his enduring commitment to her came from, how could she possibly protest?

"Well…" One word, but he took it for the concession that it was.

"Congratulations, Remington," Donald stepped into the fray, offering his future brother-in-law a hand. "You're a lucky man." Remington shook his hand, a wide smile on his face.

"You'll hear no argument from me," he acknowledged.

"Laura." Donald embraced her and pecked her on the cheek. "Congratulations."

"Thank you," she answered, with a genuine smile on her face, exchanging the embrace.

"So when's the big day?" Frances prodded for information, then stepped away from the group to place and think aloud. "Do you know where the ceremony will be held? The reception? I imagine it will be a big wedding when you consider family, friends, clients and such. You'll need a big enough place for all those guests."Then there's the matter of the venue and the number of guests determining the size of your wedding party—"

"Aunt Laura, are you and Mr. Remington getting married? For real?" Mindy asked eagerly, as she came to stand before her aunt.

"Yes, we are," Laura confirmed, still smiling, as Remington slid around her waist and gave it a squeeze.

"Angela Sarducci was in _her_ aunt's wedding it was all she could talk about for months! Can I be in yours? Please? Pretty please?"

"I wanna be in it, too," Laurie Beth shouted, bolting to her feet and running across the room to stand before Laura.

"Now, girls, that wasn't at all polite. We do not _ask_ people to be in their wedding," Frances admonished. "Either we're asked, or we're not, that's just how it works."

"Nonsense," Abigail disagreed. "Naturally, as Laura's sister, you'll be her matron of honor and Laurie Beth and Mindy will be flower girls."

"Mother!" Laura snapped. "I don't even know if that's possible!" Abigail gave her youngest daughter her full attention.

"That makes no sense, Laura," she challenged. "Why wouldn't it be possible?" Laura's shoulders slumped and she turned her head to look at Remington, silently asking for help. What she received was the arch of an amused brow, that told her he knew she was trying to avoid the inevitable. With no help coming from that corner and knowing she was about to send her mother into apoplectic fits, she drew in a deep breath, squared her shoulder and tipped up her chin defiantly.

"Because, Mother, we're getting married in six days. On New Year's Eve."

Then waited for the storm to come…


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Well, I know that, dear," Abigail responded, blithely. "But I still don't see why it would be impossible." Laura blinked a pair of times, dumbfounded.

"You… know?" she babbled, looking first at her mother, then to Remington. "She knows?"

"Of course, I do," Abigail replied, as though Laura had suddenly gone daft. "As the parent of the bride, it's my responsibility to pay for the wedding, so I'd need to know what types of plan you might have in mind." Laura's eyes widened.

"Paying?" She asked in a dazed tone, then with a mental shake of her head, collected herself. "We don't need you to pay for the ceremony, Mother. Remington and I are more than capable of—"

"Don't be silly, dear. Just like for Frances, you've had a wedding account since you were a little girl," Abigail informed her.

"I _do?"_ she drew out the last word. Would the surprises of the last twenty-four hours ever stop coming?

"Of course. You'll see. When you have a daughter of your own—" Laura jumped in before her mother could complete _that_ thought.

"Six days is not very long, not when you're speaking in terms of a wedding," she thought aloud. "Remington's made arrangements with a shop here in New York for my dress, but I don't know." She looked to Remington for his thoughts. "Can Kleinfeld squeeze in Frances, Mindy and Laurie Beth, as well?" He lifted a shoulder and dropped it.

"I suppose I could call in the morning and see what I can do," he answered, "But I must admit, it took a great deal of effort just to get the one appointment."

"Frances and the girls can just buy off the rack," Abigail insisted. "Given it's the holiday season, the stores are filled with dresses right now. All Laura has to do is see what we can find and decided on her colors." Laurie Beth and Mindy hugged one another, rightly understanding they'd be art of the wedding party.

"My colors?" _Oh, God._ She'd barely reconciled the thought of marrying Remington six mere days from then, but now her mother was talking _colors?!_ What was next? Type of cake? Flower arrangements? Bunting?

"Donald, Remington will need a best man if Frances is to be matron of honor," Abigail plowed forward.

"Actually," Remington held up a hand, "I already have someone that will be joining us in the next day or two who will stand for me." That earned another pair of blinks from Laura.

"You do?" He nodded his head.

"Mmm," he confirmed, before looking at Donald. "I've a far more important job for you in mind, anyway." Taking Laura's hand in his free one, he lifted it to his mouth and bussed the back of her knuckles. "Walking my bride down the aisle." Laura would swear Donald grew a bit misty eyed at the suggestion. Clearing his throat, he took both her hands in his.

"It would be an honor, if that's what you'd like." Laura's answering smile was genuine.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Hey," Danny called, surging to his feet. He'd been half-listening to what was being said, until he realized he was being left out in the cold. "What about me and Grandma?"

"You want in on the action too, so to speak?" Remington surmised, then rubbed at his chin, feigning consideration. "I suppose you'll do as an escort to the mother-of-the-bride." Danny looked at him suspiciously.

"What's an escort?"

"Well, you'd walk your grandmother down the aisle to her seat, right before I walk your Aunt Laura to the altar," Donald explained.

"Cool!" Danny proclaimed, seeing himself entrusted to do a job of equal importance to his father's.

"Then, I suppose we'll need to see to tuxedos tomorrow as the ladies shop," Remington proclaimed, as he nodded in the direction of the pair of waiters who'd finished setting up the dining room and had arrived back at the door of the suite. "It would seem breakfast awaits. I'll join you momentarily." As the family began their trek to the dining room, Remington was already digging in his pocket for a generous tip.

"I want to know all about the proposal, and don't leave anything out," Frances informed Laura, linking their arms together as they walked.

"What's to tell?" Laura asked, airily. "He asked and I said yes."

"Lau-ra," Frances drew out her name. "Details. Mother said there was a carriage?" Laura turned her head and grinned at her sister, finding the idea of sharing _most_ of the details rather appealing.

"Well, after you left the ballet last night with the children, a carriage pulled up in front of…"

* * *

"You're sure you're ready for this?" Laura called into the living room, from where she sat on the bed in the guest room.

"No time like the present," Remington called back from where he sat on the couch.

"Here goes nothing then," she announced as she picked up the receiver of the phone located on the bedside table and dialed.

Laura savored a piece of Loft's parlay as the phone began to ring on the other side of the line. The Pipers and Abigail had filed out shortly after lunch, as Remington and Laura had pleaded a late night and lack of sleep. The families would meet again that evening for dinner, then retire to the suite for a night of movies. In the meantime, there was a phone call to make, presents to open, and a long nap to be had.

"You can pick up the extension!" she called to Remington. She heard the click of the line, as the phone was answered on the other end.

"Hello?" The familiar voice of Mildred's nephew came over the line.

"Bernard, it's Miss… Mrs. Steele and Mr. Steele. Merry Christmas," she greeted.

"Mrs. Steele! Mr. Steele! Merry Christmas!" Bernard greeted in a shocked, but pleased voice. On a nearby chair, Mildred's ears perked up and a smile lit her face. In the years she'd been with 'The Steele's' her 'kids' had never missed a call to her at her sister's Christmas Day. She was quickly at Bernard's side, eagerly indicated he should give her the phone.

"Happy Christmas, Bernerd," Remington replied, taking the lead. "Might we have a word with Mildred?"

"I'm sorry, Aunt Mildred's not here," Bernard refused, with laughter in his voice. Remington and Laura chuckled a bit themselves as they listened to their trusted investigator scuffling for the phone.

"You're an awful boy," Mildred scolded Bernard, holding the phone in one hand and pinching his cheek with another. "Why do I love you?"

"Because I'm irresistible," he answered, then left the room to allow her time with 'the kids'.

"Mr. Steele, Mrs. Steele! Merry Christmas," she greeted effusively.

"Merry Christmas, Mildred," Laura warmly echoed the sentiment.

"Happy Christmas, darlin'," Remington returned.

"How has your Christmas been?" Laura wondered.

"Oh, you know me, I'm thrilled anytime I get to spend time with Bernard," she laughed. "That kid just makes me so proud. How's things going for the two of you in the Big Apple?"

"Ah, I believe Laura has some news for you," Remington offered. Laura frowned in the general direction of where he sat in the living room. _Coward!_ The man was as allergic to upsetting Mildred as he was legwork.

"You and the Boss haven't gotten yourselves mixed up in something out there, have you?" Mildred speculated. "I can be on the next plane out."

"No, no. All's quiet here," Laura assured. Mildred's face fell. She was due to fly back home the day after next, and she wouldn't have minded spicing up the rest of the holiday with a nice juicy mystery to work on.

"Oh," she answered, the disappointment in her voice evident.

"Actually—"

"Are you sitting down Mildred?" Remington broke in. Back in Seattle, Mildred frowned. Something was definitely up and if the Boss was asking her if she was seated, it was gonna be a doozy.

"What have you done now, Boss?" she asked with suspicion. He grunted his disapproval while Laura tittered.

"Perhaps you should ask Miss Holt what it is I've done." Laura quickly sobered. He'd not only tossed the ball squarely back in her court, but he'd deliberately given Mildred a big morsel to take a bite at, which she did.

"Miss Holt?" The pictured crystallized in an instant. The Boss only called Mrs. Steele 'Miss Holt' when he was displeased with her. "Awww, it's Christmas day. Whatever the two of you are fussing about, _forget about it_ , enjoy the day," Mildred counseled.

"Quite the opposite actually: Things couldn't be better between _Miss Holt_ and I," he corrected. "She can tell you for herself." At that, _she_ was fully prepared to strangle him, but calling a spade a spade rose to the occasion.

"Mr. Steele proposed last night and I agreed," she announced. Silence on the line spanned a couple of ticks of the second hand.

"I give. What's the punch line?" Mildred finally asked. Laura sighed. It was time to 'fess up, as Remington would say.

"Mr. Steele and I aren't really married," she admitted. Mildred began to laugh.

"That's a good one. I was there, remember?" Laura grimaced.

"Yes, you were," she acknowledged. "And I want you to know the only reason Mr. Steele and I didn't fill you in on the details is because we wanted to protect you. We—"

"Protect _me?_ From what?" Mildred cut in.

"From the INS," Laura replied. "If you knew our marriage wasn't exactly… legal… and the INS were to discover that, you could have been in a great deal of trouble. Neither Mr. Steele nor I were willing ask you to take that risk." Mildred tapped her foot, growing impatient.

"What do you mean it wasn't 'exactly legal'?" she pressed, sounding very much like the stern IRS auditor she once was.

"To put it bluntly, darlin'," Remington stepped in, "The marriage license wasn't so much legal as it was creative, and the same could be said of the blood tests. I forged them all," he confessed with a little bit too much pride for Laura's taste.

"So what am I missing?" Mildred inquired in that same no nonsense tone.

"No blood test, no license, no marriage," he summarized. To their infinite surprise, instead of issuing a good dressing down or tearfully asking why they didn't trust her enough to bring her in on the scam, she she began laughing again… uproariously this time.

"You can mean to tell me…" she gasped "…You actually thought…" she paused again for another breath of air "…If it were April's Fool I'd have to…" She drew in a deep breath, fought for control, won, then deadpanned, "You're wrong, Boss."

"He's not wrong, Mildred," Laura defended, wearily. "Forged blood tests. A forged license. Our marriage is as fake as a three dollar bill."

"If you'd gotten married in LA, sure," Mildred agreed, "But you didn't. You got married in international waters. The blood tests and the license don't mean bupkis."

Remington felt the early vestiges of panic setting in. If Mildred were correct… if he and Laura had truly been wed that day after he'd vowed there wouldn't be one scintilla of legality... The edges of his consciousness began to grow hazy. Laura would never believe any protestations of innocence. She'd never trust him again. He'd lose her. He'd lose… _Dear God._

As his breathing began to accelerate his mind traveled back to the day of their faux marriage. Her mud covered, hair tangled, clothes ruined and hose torn after several attempts had been made on her life while he'd been off gallivanting around putting into motion what he'd seen at the time as an innovative solution to his problems and realized far too late she'd see it as the ultimate betrayal. Yet she'd still agreed to save his sorry arse with only one, non-negotiable condition:

* * *

 _ **"You're sure this marriage isn't even remotely legal?"**_

 _ **"Laura, when I make a bargain, I stick to it."**_

 _ **"Okay. We've got a phony marriage license and fake blood test results. What about the captain? He'll have the authority to marry us."**_

 _ **"Um hum. Absolutely correct, Laura."**_

 _ **"Then what are we doing here?!"**_

 _ **"Juan's not the captain."**_

 _ **"Who is he?"**_

 _ **"He cleans fish."**_

* * *

And with the memory of that accordion playing, Spanish-speaking, fishing cleaner had come a beacon of hope, his salvation.

"Ah, but I asked very specifically and Juan was _not_ the captain of that floating bucket of bolts," he reminded, unable to disguise the note of triumph in his voice. In Seattle, Mildred huffed a breath and planted a fisted hand on her hip.

"Chief, how many Bible toting fish cleaners do you know?" she challenged in that no-nonsense auditor tone again. The tone suggested she knew something he didn't know and his fears swelled. Moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue, he sought an appropriate response.

"Can't say I know many fish cleaners at all, Mildred." When all else failed, resort to a bit of cheekiness, that was his motto.

"I guess you didn't ask if Juan happened to have another occupation?" she pressed, ignoring his retort. His heart pounded against his ribs, and he waved a hand in front of his face. Were there actually black dots floating about in the air?

"Get to the point, Mildred," Laura prodded.

"Juan's an ordained minister. Why do you think Becker was so quick to sign off on the ceremony?"

"But that doesn't make sense, Mildred," she argued. "Tony showed Mr. Steele proof of the false blood tests and the verification we'd never applied for a license. He _knew_ we weren't married, flaunted it even."

"Aw, c'mon, Mrs. Steele," Mildred dismissed, incredulously. "That _sleezeball_? Chasing your tail while trying to get rid of Mr. Steele? Why would he tell you the truth? Heck, Becker had your license certified before you stepped foot on that plane to Mexico for what was supposed to be your honeymoon. I guarantee you that… that… that _snake_ knew the two of you were legally hitched before you showed up at that hotel."

"I see," Laura acknowledged, dumbfounded.

 _Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me._ Archaelogist. UCLA Lecturer. INS agent. M-5 operative. Liar. Now add to that a man who had not only knew she believed herself unmarried, but knowing that she was, had pursued her anyway. Her head had been so clouded by anger at Remington for his foolishness with the hooker that her normally sharp instincts had been dulled and at every turn and Tony had taken advantage.

"You're sure, Mildred?"

"As sure as I am of my own name," Mildred confirmed. Laura nodded slowly.

"I'm going to _kill_ him," she growled. "We'll have to call you back.

Hanging up the phone, Remington stood up and walked to the window. Shoving one hand in a pocket and splaying the other over his face, he stared out the window. From experience, he knew the longer Laura took to appear, the worse it would be for him. If it were to be sound tongue lashing and a reminder of what a conniving creep he was - after which he'd be permitted to plead his case – she'd be out relatively quickly. If it were to be glacial silence and a frigid shoulder that would thaw only when she was prepared to talk – ala their days at the Sensitivity Spa - would be a bit longer. And if she decided to end it as she had in Cannes, then again another eight months after that? Well, it would be a good while before she showed herself, and when she came to him she'd be thoroughly shut down, telling him in a cool, indifferent monotone while looking at him with eyes that had shuttered away all the warmth he'd once basked in, that their days had come to an end.

"Well, this is a fine mess," Laura groused, as she strode briskly into the room, "And it's all _your_ fault," she pointed at him. He winced at the accusation, failing to notice her casual tone, and dropping the hand from his face, shoved it into his other pocket.

"Laura." His voice was strained when he spoke, drawing her eyes to him. She'd briefly considered he'd been assuming the worst of her while sitting out in the living room, but then had tossed the idea aside, rationalizing they'd come so far so surely he'd know… Apparently not. With an emphasized huff of resignation meant to help put him at ease, she crossed her arms.

"Alright," she elongated the word in feigned exasperation, "Let's get this over with then. Did you know?" He licked his lips nervously and shifted where he stood.

"No," he answered, then hurriedly continued, "I know I've—"

"I didn't think so," she replied, with the shrug of a shoulder.

"…Done some buggering stupid—" His words stopped in their tracks. Craning his neck slightly towards her, his eyes narrowed disbelievingly. "You didn't? You don't?"

"Look, you resorted to some _pretty cheap tricks_ to try to persuade me into bed, once upon a time," she answered honestly, "But while your ploys made it _very clear_ ," she laughed as the memory of some of those absurd attempts ran through her mind, "What you hoped would happen, you always left that decision to me. That you'd intentionally marry me without my knowledge? That flies in the face of _everything_ I know to be true about you when it comes to our personal relationship." The bright smile that covered his face as he crossed the room to her could have lit the entire city at dusk.

"Laura, there are days that you shock the hell out of me, in the very best of ways," he told her, as he wrapped his arms around her waist.

"I've learned the only way to survive with you is by keeping you guessing," she answered in a teasing tone, then with a brush of her lips over his, disengaged herself from his arms. "Now, speaking of your grand schemes that rarely work out the way you intended," she said, referencing the reason news of their wedded state, "Exactly how are we going to explain to my mother that we're already married?"…


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: So, Laura was never meant to be pregnant in this story. As I've share before, the odds of Laura Holt getting pregnant without having first made a detailed plan is highly unlikely. But... Given the number of private messages I've received and a few references in the reviews, an added Christmas present (just ignore we are now into February). ~RSteele82**_

Chapter 12

In the end Laura and Remington decided to tell Abigail precisely… nothing… about their marital status. What was the point? The truth – which they were still reeling from – would only lead to accusations, recriminations and likely a good deal of dramatic tears. As the old saying went, what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

Mildred, however, was sworn to secrecy, then issued an invite to New York City to attend their New Year's nuptials.

And, much like the upgrade to their suite and the arrangements Remington had made for the proposal and the upcoming ceremony, he'd already reserved a room for Mildred at the Plaza and had a plane ticket awaiting her at the Seattle airport. The only thing friend, associate, and surrogate mother of one had to do was get herself to the airport and the rest was taken care of.

But, before Mildred arrived, there was a wedding dress to find and tuxes to have fit.

Kleinfeld was known to have one of the largest wedding gown collections in the United States. Long gowns or cocktail length; tulle or lace; long train or no train; virginal white, antique white, or rose – the store offered it all. For most, it would be the store of their dreams…

For Laura it was the store from her worst of nightmares: She in the company of the mother who'd been envisioning her in wedding gown since birth and the sister who could spend days on end dressing her Barbies in a gown, Ken in a tux, and marrying them off… again, and again and again. Now add to that a starry eyed thirteen year old girl who thought the upcoming wedding was 'the most romantic thing ever' and a six-year-old carting a doll and already complaining she'd rather be at the hotel playing. The entire set up left Laura shuddering as she walked through the doors of the store, knowing somewhat what she wanted and understanding she'd have to indulge her mother and sister by trying on any number of wrong dresses for them.

It had taken great effort on her part not to smile when the sales representative assigned to her announced that because she needed a gown fitted and ready to go in less than a week, they would be limited in their selections to off-the-rack and some samples. Laura silently celebrated the news, and then was positively ready to do a pirouette, when the representative added with further regret that Laura's petite size two frame would narrow the selection even further to available size twos and some fours that could be easily altered. Surely there couldn't be more than handful available, right?

Wrong.

Thus, forty-five minutes later she found herself stepping into the first of a dozen dresses that had been hauled into the room at her mother and Frances's direction – not a single one of them fitting her vision for herself.

And this, this, this… she didn't even have the words for it… was a dress straight out her nightmares. _Can you really call a day dream a nightmare?_ A point to ponder later. But the dress was, quite literally, from her nightmares, no matter what it was called.

Shortly after she and Remington had exchanged vows on the trawler, she'd found herself staring out the window of the limousine, while trying to come to terms with what they'd just done. She may have dozed off, although she doubted it, but suddenly she could envision the interior of a beautiful church and her, in her wedding gown, walking down the aisle toward Remington. With its puffy sleeves, layer of lace, excessive trims and beading a ridiculously long train, was it any wonder after walking down the aisle in the dress of her mother's dreams that her groom had ended up being a fish and the priest Norman Keyes? She thought not.

Yet, now here she stood in a gown that was frighteningly similar, as the representative tugged at the zipper.

"A bit snug," the woman note, "But nothing an extension can't fix. Could you suck in your stomach just a little?" Laura did as asked and after another solid pair of tugs, the zipper slid up.

Then she had to wait until the skirt was fluffed and arranged to the saleswoman's satisfaction. She was anything but the picture of the glowing bride when she stepped out of the dressing room into the small viewing area. Still, Abigail and Frances's faces lit up, and 'aws' and 'oohs' abundantly flowed. She never thought Mindy, of all people, would be the voice of reason.

"It's perfect," Abigail oozed. Mindy wrinkled her nose.

"Maybe for Mom," she allowed, "But not Aunt Laura."

"I don't think I like what you're implying," Frances said in the tone of voice that said her feelings had been hurt.

"I only meant, that this dress is Princess Diana," Mindy explained. "You always talk about Princess Diana's wedding dress when we see her on the news or on the cover of _The Enquirer_ when we're at the grocery store. That—" she pointed at the dress "Is Princess Diana. But Aunt Laura's like Jackie Kennedy: American royalty. Elegant. Timeless." Laura snapped her fingers and pointed at her niece.

"Exactly." Stepping down off the short pedestal, she faced the saleswoman. "This isn't it. _Nothing_ in that dressing room is right." Once the door to the dressing room door was closed, and the woman began unbuttoning and unzipping the gown, Laura launched into an explanation of what she wanted. "All satin, I think. White, sleeveless, form fitting to the waist, a full skirt… but not too full. And no train, not even the hint of one."

"I have a few things in mind," the saleswoman acknowledged.

"Thank you. And if you wouldn't mind taking Mindy with you?" She imagined it would be quite the boon to brag to fellow teenagers that she'd not only been in her aunt's wedding, but had helped pick out the dress.

For a while the room was filled with hustle and bustle, as staff removed grounds brought in previously, then Mindy and the saleswoman returned with a new selection of dresses. Standing, Laura examined the gowns, her eyes falling first to the skirts confirming nary a train to be found, then eliminated two dresses for their ball gown style skirts, then another pair as they'd been designed to show off décolletage she simply did not possess.

"What do you think, Mindy?" she requested her niece's advice on the four dresses still remaining.

"This one!" Mindy answered, immediately, her eyes glimmering with the pride she felt at being included on something so important. "It reminds me of the coat Uncle Remington gave you for Christmas." Her face fell and she shifted foot-to-foot, uncomfortable when Laura's eye narrowed thoughtfully. "I'm sorry," she apologized immediately. "I mean Mr. Remington." Laura did a double take, waved a dismissive hand at her niece, then her eyes returned to the dress.

"I think if you call him Uncle Remington, you'll make his day," she assured. "You're right about the dress. It's perfect." The pure white sleeveless dress featured a straight neckline that would leave her shoulders bared, a fitted bodice and a full, pleated, asymmetrical a-line skirt was a simple as it was elegant. "Why don't you go wait with your mother and grandmother while I try it on?"

"Okay," Mindy agreed readily, and stepped from the room closing the door behind her.

"Now, I couldn't find this in a two, so we'll need to take it in a bit," the saleswoman explained as she removed it from the hanger. "The simple lines will make alterations needed quick and easy," she assured, chattering away while Laura stepped into the skirt, then helped ease it up. "In the meantime we'll use clips to show you what it will look like when fitted."

"Alright." Laura looked downwards, examining the fall of the skirt as the saleswoman fastened the long line of buttons that began at her lower back and continued to the top of the dress. They'd give Remington fits on their wedding night, but, maybe it was for that very reason that she liked the dress all the more.

"It's like it was made for you," the saleswoman admired, "And only one alteration needed from what I can see, right here." She indicated an area beneath Laura's breasts, then with a couple of tugs, clipped the material in place at her back. "Would you like to take a look before showing it to your family?"

Laura turned to face the mirrors, and was rendered speechless. It was perfect, appealing to her bent towards timeless, classic clothing and Remington's love for the refined elegance of Lauren Bacall and Ingrid Bergman in those old movies he adored. The fitted bodice gave the illusion that she was a little heaver on top than she actually was, and the snug nip at her waist giving way to the pleats of the skirt gave her the illusion of a more curvy appearance than she actually possessed. Lifting her hair – she already knew the dress demanded her hair upswept into a French twist – she envisioned her Christmas earrings on her lobes and the necklace Remington had given her long ago around her neck. But it was when she pictured wearing the coat with it that she knew: This was it. This was the one. And it had only taken a little assertiveness and two dresses to find it.

She stepped out of the dressing room fully confident in how she appeared.

"Oh, Laura," Frances breathed,

"It's _perfect_ ," Mindy proclaimed.

"You're really pretty, Aunt Laura," Laurie Beth chimed in.

"How do you plan to wear your hair, dear?" Abigail wondered.

"French twist," Laura replied, definitively.

"Then hold your hair up," Abigail directed, evaluating her daughter critically from head-to-toe when she complied. "Beautiful," she pronounced. "The dress reminds me of one I saw Audrey Hepburn wearing in a magazine years ago, although if I remember correctly hers was heavily embroidered and it had a bit of a train. But as much as Remington loves his movies, I think he'll be speechless when he sees you coming down the aisle in this. Now, you'll need a veil, of course." Laura's pleasure at her mother's comparison of her to Audrey Hepburn – a reference Remington had made in the past on a few occasions – was quickly dulled by mention of a veil.

"Oh, Mother, I don't know," she hesitated. "A _veil_ ," she drew out the word, "Is so old-fashioned, a symbol for purity, even, and I think we can both agree, given I lived with Wilson and now Remington, that I left purity in the rear view—"

"A veil turns a ball gown into a wedding gown, nothing more," Abigail corrected, "And I know just the type you need. It was all the rage in the fifties." She looked at the saleswoman. "Would you have a simple…" she glance at Laura, then corrected, "I mean _elegant_ elbow veil?"

"Do you know what jewelry you'll be wearing?" the woman asked Laura.

"Diamond drop earrings and a gold locket."

"I have the perfect veil in mind," the saleswoman promised. "I'll be right back."

She did, indeed, find the perfect veil, a simple white mesh lined in white satin that clipped into the hair with a clear rhinestone studded comb. The veil stopped just short of Laura's elbows and what there was of the miniscule material fell solely behind her head and shoulders. With everyone in approval on the dress, alterations followed, where she was measured, jostled, poked and pricked.

"Thirty bust, twenty-eight chest, twenty-four waist, thirty-two hips…We're going to bring it in right here… Pin… Turn please…"

A short note scribbled in her pocket calendar reminding her of her next fitting on Tuesday and the Holt women were on the move, Laura with a bag containing her veil inside. The entire morning had been set aside for finding a dress and Laura's quick success meant they had time to fill before stopping for lunch. At Laura's suggestion, they split up: Abigail, Frances and the girls went to Sak's to begin looking for dresses while Laura walked two blocks down to Tiffany's. She needed a matron of honor gift and flower girls gifts - that much she remembered from Frances's wedding and weddings of friends.

For Frances something ridiculously sentimental would be demanded. She'd considered buying Frances a pair of earrings identical to the ones Remington had gifted her with at Christmas, but her eyes had crossed and her skin had paled when she'd surreptitiously glanced at the price tag. If he'd charged her earrings to the Agency account she was going to brain him. If he'd charged them to his personal card... well, he'd be eating in more often than not over the next year to pay off that bill. She'd roamed the store, stumbling across the perfect gift for each of the girls: A gold bracelet with heart shaped charm that had a diamond chip embedded in it. Then, only another case downwards and she found the most perfectly sappy gift that Frances would adore: A rectangular, gold charm with the word 'sister' embossed upon it and a tiny diamond embedded at the bottom. One gold chain later, she was checking out. Her eyes had nearly bulged out of her head when she saw the total then the additional rush engraving charge but, with a deep breath she'd signed off on the credit card receipt.

 _She'd_ have to give up chocolate for the next three years to pay off that dent to her card. _But maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing,_ she ruminated. She'd chosen to ignore the fact that a size 4 dress only needed to be 'nipped' in one place, and she'd taken purposeful note of her measurements when the seamstress had called them out. It was with some dismay that she realized her mother had been right: She had gained weight… and if she were honest with herself, she'd noticed it herself a few weeks before. Many of her bras and teddies had begun feeling a bit snug across her breasts and, as she'd told Remington only a few days before, some of her wardrobe no longer fit. According to those measurements, she definitely moved into the 'B' cup range, and her waist had thickened a full inch – only her hips, thank God, had remained steady.

 _So far,_ she grimaced as she wrote down the inscriptions she wanted on the jewelry. Too many of Remington's culinary masterpieces and too little jogging over the last year and half had taken their toll. Since there was no way she was going to turn her nose up at his cooking, she vowed to commit herself to a five mile run, no less than six days a week, beginning the day after they returned home to LA.

She narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing her engraving choices. For Laurie Beth, on the front side of her charm, two words: 'Flower Girl'; On the back, '12-31-1987'. For Mindy, on the back the same date, but on the front the word 'Bridesmaid.' After all, if Danny could be an usher, surely Mindy could be bumped up to Bridesmaid. Another feather in her cap when she told the tale to her friends. Laura was certainly competitive enough to appreciate that. And finally on Frances's on the back she'd had inscribed 'And friend'. Frances would cry buckets for days, maybe weeks, which the thought of made Laura uncomfortable enough to consider going another route, but in the end she'd tipped up her chin and had handed the paper to the clerk. It was the truth, after all: After a lifetime of being on different pages, in the last two years they'd become friends.

At least of a sort – but not in that 'come over and hang out or call every day' type of way, you understand. Laura would be driven mad within a week of _that._

After scribbling in her pocket calendar the rings would be ready pick up on Wednesday, she made her way to Saks. If they were as efficient in finding dresses as she'd been with her gown, there was a good possibility they could be back at the hotel by early afternoon. Those hopes were dashed when she saw her mother, Frances and the children waiting for her outside the store.

"Come along, Laura," Abigail instructed, while raising an arm and hailing a cab. "There was nothing that would do, but a lovely woman told me of a bridal store on twenty-fift, that she promised has multiple rooms filled with dresses that we can take home today."

Helplessly, Laura piled into the backseat with Frances and the girls, while her mother climbed in the front. After giving the cabbie the address, her mother turned in her seat to address Laura.

"We need to know your colors, Laura," she prompted. Laura stared at her blankly.

"My… my colors?" she stumbled. She worried she was about to fall down a hatch but instead of Alice in Wonderland, she'd be Laura in Weddingland.

"For the dresses and your bouquet," Abigail elaborated in a tone that suggested it was self-explanatory. It was, but it didn't mean she was eager to engage. She ran through the gamut of colors in her mind, immediately eliminating anything remotely pastel. Red and green were too 'Christmasy' and while their wedding might occur right after Christmas, they were… well… already married. Pastels were for spring, and she'd never been a fan of gold or silver as a color choice for clothing. She considered blue. A cerulean blue like Remington's eyes maybe?

"Of course, the boys will have to get bowties and vests or cummerbunds to match," Abigail reminded.

"Shouldn't we have thought of that _before_ their tux fittings?" Laura groused.

"I'm sure it will be no trouble at all to match your colors," Abigail brushed off the concern.

"Black and white. My colors are black and white," Laura announced, definitively. Once she said the words, she found she loved the idea. A timeless color scheme, tying them to no place and time… and that the colors were reminiscent of the movies her Mr. Steele loved? Nothing could be more perfect.

"Black?" Abigail repeated in horror. "Laura, _black_ is a color for funerals, not weddings."

"Not black or white, Mother," Laura corrected. "Black and white dresses, a bouquet of white roses. Simple, elegant, timeless," she repeated the words that had become her mantra.

"It will be impossible to find black and white dresses for a bridal party," Abigail predicted. Laura's chin tipped up a notch at that, and she dug in her heels.

"We'll see," she replied, blithely. "And if we don't find them at this place, well, we'll just have to go somewhere else."

She inwardly winced even as she said the words.

* * *

It wasn't just any tux shop that Remington escorted the Holt men to, but a top notch tailor recommended weeks ago by the concierge at The Plaza. The shop offered custom purchases as well as top-of-the-line rentals. But, there would be no rentals for Remington Steele, nor the men in the wedding party, for Remington Steele had spent far too much of his life wearing other's cast-offs, and it had been only through hard work and a steely determination to improve the perch he landed on with each subsequent job that had finally allowed him to reach a point in life where used clothing was long in his past. With a little help from Abigail on Donald and Danny's sizing, three tuxes, complete with tie, vest and tails had been awaiting the trio to try on when they arrived.

"This is really far too generous, Remington," Donald insisted for the umpteenth time. "Danny and I are perfectly fine renting—"

"I'll hear no more of it," Remington countered, much as he'd been since shortly after they'd entered the shop. "A little more here, I think," he indicated the waist of his jacket to the tailor kneeled before him, pinning final adjustments needing to be made. "Perhaps Laura and I will have you and Frances as our guests at the symphony one evening."

"Well, I'll certainly have the monkey suit for it," Donald laughed. "So, tell me, Remington. What made you decide to take—"

"That off-ramp?" Remington finished the thought, although in a different manner than intended by Donald. Donald laughed.

"Yeah, that off-ramp," he confirmed.

"I've actually been contemplating it since around the time you and Frances moved to LA," Remington admitted, in a rare moment of open honesty that seemed to occasionally overtake him in his future brother-in-law's company. "The last year and a half that we've lived together merely confirmed what I had suspected all along."

"What was that?" Donald asked, a second tailor worked on the cuff of a pant leg.

"Kismet," Remington replied quickly.

"Kismet?"

"Fate. Laura's and my paths were always meant to cross and no matter how hard we fought it at times, this was our inevitable end." He grinned at Donald's reflection in the mirror next to his own. "There's no one quite like Laura Holt."

"She's a rare one, alright, you don't have to tell me that," Donald agreed. "But I gotta admit: I wondered if she'd ever meet someone who could keep up with her, instead of trying to hold her back." Remington chuckled.

"She's certainly not a woman for the faint of heart," he mused. "The impossible challenge, I once called her. I suspect she'll always be that…"


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"So, what do you think?" Laura wondered, critically evaluating the three females before her.

Frances wore a black, satin, sleeveless a-line gown with empire waist and a wide white belt that clipped at the center before a single sash fell down the center of the dress providing a wide slash of white down the front of the skirt. Mindy wore a strapless dress with white illusion neckline, black fitted bodice and white tea-length skirt with a black, silk trimmed hem, while Laurie Beth was dressed in a white sleeveless dress with satin bodice, tulle skirt and black sash that tied into a large bow at her back.

"I love my dress," Mindy enthused.

"Me, too," Laurie Beth chortled.

"Frances?"

"It's beautiful. It's been so long since I've dressed up, I just-" Frances finally answered, "It's beautiful."

"Mother?"

"I'm afraid I have to admit, it's a very… refined look," Abigail confessed.

"You mean elegant," Laura smiled. Bored with clothing shoe and tell, Laurie Beth meandered away from the group and plopped down into a chair, pulling her doll onto her lap.

"It's a very dramatic looked," Abigail assessed.

"Black and white never go out of style," Laura pointed out, "And the style of these dresses were as popular thirty, forty years ago, as they are today. Timeless," she smiled again.

"Aunt Laura?" Laurie asked, swinging her legs while pretending to feed her doll.

"Yes?"

"Are you and Mr. Remington going to have a baby?" Laura blinked a pair of times, and felt the room sway beneath her feet.

"Laurie Beth!" Frances gasped. "We _do not ask_ people things like that. What are you thinking?"

"But you said when Mommies and Daddies love each other and get married, they get a baby," Laurie Beth argued, lip sticking out in a pout. Frances blushed furiously and raised a hand, fidgeting nervously with her throat and looking at Laura for help.

"I'm going to see what they have in shoes," she excused herself, giving Frances an apologetic smile. Grabbing her purse off a chair, she strode out of the room and up to the first sales associate she saw. "Would you have a ladies room I might use?"

"Go through that room to the first doorway on your right, then turn left down the hallway," the middle-aged woman directed.

"Thank you. And could we see shoes in black for my sister and nieces and in white for myself? I wear a size 6, narrow," she requested.

"Of course. I'll have your sales rep pull a selection for each of you."

Laura gave the woman another smile then made a beeline for the restroom where she quickly locked herself into a stall. Perching on the edge of the toilet, she dug in her purse for her pocket calendar and opened it. _September_ _27, right on time._ Easily remembered as they'd only had a pair of days to go wherever the mood took them before they were… inconvenienced on the last three days of Remington's birthday trip. While he'd taken it like a pro, it was easy for him, whereas those artless touches he'd always been prone towards bestowing on her had doubled in their frequency during that trip, leaving her positively itchy.

She thumbed ahead to the next month. _October 25. I probably gained five pounds that week alone._ Bags upon bags of Halloween chocolate heaven surrounding her had been too much too resist. _November 22_ _nd_ _. Thanksgiving weekend._ They'd spent a long, three-day weekend in a tryptophan induced fog, indulging on Thanksgiving leftovers, enjoying bubble baths together, and curling up on the couch, catnapping while movies played on the television. Then there had been their antics with the pumpkin mousse and whipped cream, she grinned.

That smile quickly faded as she turned another page ahead. She should have started six days ago.

 _Not possible,_ she pronounced in silent denial. She was _nothing_ if not absolutely fastidious about her birth control. Her morning ritual never varied: teeth, pill, makeup, hair. Well, she might go without makeup on the weekend but it would still be teeth, pill, hair. She hadn't missed a pill. Not once. Not ever.

Her back stiffened and her eyes widened. Did he suspect? Is that what was behind this rushed wedding, fostered by some noble notion that he needed to do right by woman and child?

* * *

" _ **Aspen? You were going to propose in Aspen?"**_

* * *

He'd already admitted to have been mulling marriage before their trip to Maui, and _if…IF…_ just if… she certainly wasn't then.

The increase in his attentiveness, in those glancing touches, hadn't lessened since their return but had remained steadily present and persistent… and those touches hadn't been the only change in the last months. Around the time of her mother's call to announce the trip to New York City, the man who'd always had a healthy sexual appetite had become positively randy, reminiscent of those first months after they'd crossed 'that line' at Ashford Castle – not that she was complaining, mind you, for her appetite for him was as voracious as his for her. Still, she could only recall a handful of days when they hadn't made love in the last month or so, and two of those were the day of their arrival in New York and the day following.

Then, in the last few weeks, those unconscious touches meant for connection set aside, she'd noticed something new – a slight air of possessiveness he hadn't exhibited before. He'd taken to greeting clients with his arm around her waist, something she'd found… odd.. given they'd never openly broadcast their personal connection before. When they took a walk together, his hand would capture hers, and should she pull away, he'd find reason to encircle her with an arm. And at home, he seemed to find one excuse after another to keep her close.

Did he suspect? Or were these new aspects of their relationship no more than his exhilaration over his planned proposal?

She frowned. _Or both._

She didn't know, and she didn't have a clue how to ferret out the answer to that question without revealing she might… might… just might, if he didn't know already.

 _First things first, Holt_ , she reminded herself sternly. A whole host of anomalies other than pr-… than _that_ … could account for a missed cycle. Her shoulders slumped. _Or two_. Right? _Right?_ After all, she'd had not a single symptom she'd heard her sister and friends complain about when they'd been pregnant. She hadn't been moody or overly tired. She'd had no food cravings, no need to use the bathroom more regularly. She certainly hadn't experienced the slightest bit of nausea. But there was a change she simply couldn't deny made the possibility a very real one – one that had everything to do with her recently snug wardrobe.

She nodded her head in acknowledgement as her emotions rioted, one part of her scared to death, while the other side was, in truth, a little excited. There was only one way to know for sure, which meant another stop would be required once she shook her mother, sister and nieces…

* * *

Laura peered down into the glass display case, forcing herself to focus on the rings. She'd been distracted much of the afternoon – for good reason – and her just completed trip to the drugstore hadn't helped quell her frazzled mind. But now was not the time to think about any of that. This particular decision was too important.

Remington hadn't mentioned anything about a ring. He wouldn't mention one, leaving that decision to her alone. Yet, when they'd gone undercover as a married couple across the years, she'd seen his surreptitious glances between their hands, admiring the tangible proof that they were bound together, if only for a role and only temporarily. And for a man who'd struggled with merely the idea of making a commitment throughout most of their association, he'd slipped the Peppler wedding band on his finger as soon as they'd returned from Ashford, never questioning if his finger would be banded as hers was when they made their appearances as 'Mr. and Mrs. Steele'.

There wasn't a question in her mind that he'd want a ring. The only question was: What type of ring? A simple gold band would be too reminiscent of their sham wedding rings. A classic, elegant design would be demanded – something his fashion conscious self would view as looking as good with a pair of jeans on as it would with a tux … Nothing clunky or overly ornate for him. A circular or rectangular face, and he'd classify it more as a signet ring than wedding band. She knew, without hesitation, that he'd prefer his ring to complement hers as closely as possible, but that presupposed she knew what her wedding band would look like. In that, she could only make an educated guess. She studied her ring. Gold, but an undertoned gold, not quite as yellow as their Peppler rings. Fastidious about his belongings, he'd be adverse to risking her ring getting dinged or scratched up while on the job, so nothing less than eighteen or twenty-four carat would do. The diamond studded channel set of the band of her ring, suggested her wedding band would be similarly set, given Remington's bent towards congruity.

 _Light gold, elegant, diamonds. Check, check, check._

Now to find it.

Too narrow. Too thick. To angled. Too gauche. Too rose. To… crass. Too clumpy. Too…

 _Perfect._

She indicated the ring with a point of her finger, and shortly held it in her hand. Solid. A perfect match in color to her own. Reinforced shank. Eighteen carat gold. Two diamonds embedded vertically in the center of the ring. It was the perfect complement to her engagement ring and, she imagined, the wedding band he had tucked away somewhere waiting until the big day.

She let out a long, slow breath as she reviewed the order form and charge slip. _The Rabbit better have another two more years in it,_ she mused, wryly, as she scrawled her name on both. For a wedding that as fully paid for, it was certainly putting her card to more use than it had seen since her house was bombed.

And there wouldn't be an insurance check to pay it off this time around.

Still, folding the small bag containing the ring in two, then sequestering the bag inside the one holding her veil, she left the store feeling accomplished.

It wasn't until the cab was halfway back to the hotel that she recalled another box hidden beneath her veil, and fervently hoped morning would come quickly so she could either put her mind at ease or find the right words to tell Remington – if he didn't already know – that role of expectant father might be arriving far sooner than he'd planned.

* * *

"Oh, hey, Mrs.—" Mildred began to greet then corrected herself with a wink, " _Miss Holt_."

Laura had just walked through the door of the suite, when Mildred called the greeting from where she sat at the end of the couch in the living room. Remington, seated at the opposite end, immediately stood to take Laura's bag from her and help her with her coat.

"Mildred, I'm sorry," Laura drew out the words in sincere dismay, "I thought we weren't expecting you until this evening!" As Remington hung up her coat, she crossed the room to the older woman who stood so they could exchange hugs.

"You weren't," Mildred assured, as she took her seat. "Bernard left first thing this morning, and although my sister and I might get along when he's there, when he leaves…? Well, I thought I'd just see if there was an earlier flight, and here I am!" She threw her arms open wide, enunciating the point enthusiastically. "The Chief says you've been shoppin' til you drop."

"Yesssssssss," Laura confirmed, wearily, slumping down into an arm chair. "There's something to be said for eloping on a tuna trawler," she raised her brows, wryly, "Especially when you don't realize you're _actually_ eloping."

"I was rather hoping you'd enjoy all the pre-wedding festivities," Remington commented as he returned to where he'd been seated on the couch.

"Have _you_ ever gone shopping with Mother and Frances for wedding attire?" she challenged. He flashed her a crooked smile.

"So far as I know, I've never done shopping of any kind with Abigail and Frances," he retorted, unperturbed by the snippy remark. Mildred pressed a trio of fingers to her lips and gave Laura an innocent look when her snicker drew the younger woman's eyes.

"Well, if you want my advice: Don't," she told him, emphatically. "Finding my dress was a snap," she recounted, "The wedding party dresses took a while longer, _which_ …" she held up a finger in emphasis, "I would expect given there were three people, not one, to account for. But _two-and-a-half hours_ for _shoes?_ " Abigail had insisted Laura, Frances, Mindy and Laurie Beth's shoes should all be similar. How exactly does one find a similar pair of shoes for a six-year-old child and thirty-two-year-old woman? It had taken an hour-and-forty-five minutes, and three dozen pairs of shoes to prove no such creature existed, and when Abigail had finally relented, Frances had become fixated on the shoes matching both dress and accessories. _That_ gem had required them to find the right style of shoes, arrange to have Frances and Mindy's both dyed black, then a lengthy discourse on what clips for which pair of shoes. "By the time we were done, we'd missed our lunch reservations long before…" A ghost of a smile whispered over her lips "…Thank God, or we'd likely still be at the restaurant."

"You haven't eaten?" Remington asked, glancing at his watch then beginning to rise. "I'll just call down to room service, and order you up something on the light side." Laura waved him back down.

"There's no need," she refused. "I sent them off to eat, then stopped by Gray's Papaya while I was running personal errands." He wasn't sure what tidbit interested him more: Whatever a Grays Papaya was or the nature of those 'personal' errands.

"The hotdog joint?" Mildred wondered.

"Yeah, the hotdog joint," Laura laughed, as she kicked off her shoes. "How did you know?" Remington swung his head back and forth between the women as they spoke.

"Awww," Mildred waved a hand, "The limo driver was telling me where to get some of the best eats in New York City. He thinks they might have an even better dog than Coney Island."

"He may be right," Laura assessed, mentally comparing the hot dog she'd gotten on the boardwalk the last time she and Remington were in New York City.

"You gotta letta girl live vicariously, Miss Holt," Mildred insisted, "I haven't eaten since before getting on that plane. So spill. Whatcha get?"

"I couldn't decide, so I had them load it up: ketchup, mustard, chili, cheese, extra onion…"

"Mmmmm," Mildred hummed, envisioning it.

"…And sauerkraut with a cup of their papaya juice." Mildred made a face and shook her head.

"You lost me at the sauerkraut."

"What a bizarre craving," Remington mused. Laura's head snapped around to look at him with suspicious eyes. He did a double take, then shifted in his seat beneath her gaze.

"Craving," she pretended to consider, elongating the word. "Why would you say that?"

 _Has she realized?_ he wondered.

He'd been admittedly a little slow on the uptake himself, by an entire week and a half. In fact, he'd hadn't been led to the realization by some brilliant, intuitive deduction on his part, but had blundered upon it, much like he'd accidentally solve a case in their early days together.

They'd been preparing for work one morning in the first days of December and, as was their habit, she'd showered before him so she could finish the rest of her morning ablutions while he took his turn beneath the spray of hot water. As he'd stepped into the bathroom and leaned down to place a peck of morning greeting against her cheek, she'd slipped a pill into her mouth. As she was snapping shut the case, he'd unconsciously registered she was on the beginning of a new pack, which had left him grinning as he'd step into the shower stall, quite for selfish reasons.

Much as she approached the rest of her life, Laura had taken the matter of birth control fully under her own control, unwilling to risk the capriciousness of life to determine her parental status. Next to abstinence – which thank the stars above was at last in the rearview mirror – in her eyes the most effective barrier to pregnancy was those little peach and green colored pills. He'd be lying if he were to say it hadn't made him nervous at first, allowing someone else full control over his own parental destiny. He made the acquaintance of enough conniving women during the course of his life who believed an accidental pregnancy was the quickest and most efficient way to either bind a man to them for life or to score a handsome, decades long payday. Even though this was _Laura_ , he'd found himself unconsciously watching the first months they'd regularly shared a bed, and her routine never varied: Teeth brushed, pill, makeup – if she chose to wear any at all – then hair, a case of pills stowed both at the loft and his condo before she'd moved into his place quite for good. She wouldn't take a chance of missing a pill, not his Laura, he'd learned and in time he'd stopped paying attention at all.

He'd certainly reaped the benefits of her decision, though, he'd mused as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. To feel her heat, her wetness directly; to feel every nuance of her flesh surrounding his; to pour his very essence inside her then be able to remain nestled within in her depths long afterwards with no rush to separate their joined bodies so that he might do a bit of 'clean up'… all of it had added to the already intimate act of making love with the woman who'd become the most important person in his life. His lips twitched with a smile, as the familiar jolt of longing and love that accompanied memories of their lovemaking rocketed through his body, straight to his core. Where once experiencing that 'ultimate moment' would have meant a peck on the cheek for whatever woman he was with then rolling immediately away, he cherished the aftermath with Laura as he much as he did the actual act – the feeling of their bodies pressed skin-to-skin, the way she'd draw her fingers through his hair, over his flesh… her breathy gasps of air warming shoulder, neck, chest, wherever her lips lay near. The mere thought left his blood warming, body humming…

"Laura, I was thinking…"

"Not happenin'," she called back before he could finish the thought, then added the reminder, "Work first, play later. Tracy Lord can't be late."

The rebuke left him smiling instead of properly downtrodden by the refusal. That was his Laura. Unless he caught her off-guard of a workday morning, she'd blithely reject his attempts to lure her into a compromising position, while making it known she'd welcome a bit of 'play' once business was disposed with. _Mustn't be late, old sport,_ he mused. Laura was already in a foul enough mood that he'd contrived to send her uncover as a member of their client's secretarial pool. To be late to the loathsome job? Well, that was guaranteed to remind her who'd put her in such a position in the—

Bent over, scrubbing his legs down with the washcloth, he froze as his mind zeroed in on that packet of pills she'd held in her hand shortly ago. The packet had been nearly completely full, only three, maybe four pills missing. Now, mind you, he'd never claim to be an expert on the contraceptives used by the fairer sex, as he'd resolutely controlled his own fate as Laura was doing now, but seventeen months of observing Laura's daily routine clued him on a thing or two – such as a new pack was preceded by a week's worth of little green pills, a day of misery for the woman taking them, and a handful of days when back rubs, foot massages and snuggling before the telly were the only intimacy to be had.

And he couldn't recall any such times in recent weeks.

He stood abruptly, his head swinging in the general direction of where the blow dryer was whirring. Did she know and hadn't thought to clue him in? He dismissed the notion a split second after it came to mind. He would have known something was amiss, he was certain of it. Masticate the possibility to death before saying something to him she might do, but be off kilter she'd be: Unconsciously fidgeting, falling into long periods of introspection, eyeing him warily. There had been none of that.

That evening, under the guise of searching for a pen, he'd slipped her pocket calendar out of her purse, thumbing through until he reached November where he found a circle around the number twenty-two. Thanksgiving weekend. _Mmmmm_ , he hummed silently. What a delightful weekend that had been with a bounty of making love and napping. He thumbed back to October, then chuckled quietly drawing her to call from the other room…

"Did you say something?"

He'd assure her he'd not, then returned his attention to the small book in his hand. She'd fueled herself with the Halloween candy he purchased for the trick-or-treaters they might receive. Luckily for them, they hadn't received many visitors Halloween night, as she'd consumed a considerable amount of the treats.

Thumbing ahead to December he noted the next circled date, the twentieth. Perhaps she hadn't said anything because there was nothing to say. He'd heard more than one man thank the saints above that some woman or another had merely 'been late' or had just 'skipped a month.' Frankly, he hadn't been sure _what_ to think.

But as the days had turned into a week, then weeks into nearly a month, he'd taken notice of… other things… that might lend credence to his initial belief that Laura was with child: She'd taken to dozing off while he prepared dinner and napped with him more often on the weekends; her breasts had distinctly enlarged and the areolas had darkened a shade; those same breasts had always been exquisitely sensitive, but for a spell they'd turned tender, then, in the week past, even more responsive to his touch than they'd been before; and, over the course of the last two weeks he'd felt the subtle thickening of her waist.

Abigail had noticed the difference right off, although she'd attributed it Remington's cooking. It had given him the opportunity to plant a seed in Laura's head…

* * *

" _ **You might be surprised by the number of fantasies I've enjoyed of you, rotund...Although not due to any activities in the kitchen."**_

* * *

He'd grown weary of waiting for her to figure it out. The start date of her cycle had come and gone for a second time three days before they'd arrived in New York, and she'd yet to bat an eye. Still, his rather audacious statement had only earned him a queer look a time or two. Then, he'd tried again the night they'd become affianced…

* * *

 _ **"Expectant fa—"**_

* * *

But she'd promptly silenced him.

His eyes flickered to her and then away again. Well, if she _had_ finally realized, why not have a bit of fun with it? Hadn't he, after all, spent weeks in silence wondering if she'd figured things out yet?

"Need I remind you how many times I've watched you consume those nitrate filled, meat byproducts… and with relish at that," he flashed her a quick smile at his pun. "Can't abide by the things myself, yet when we get within fifty feet of a street vendor or the pier you begin positively salivating. Isn't that the very definition of craving?" She frowned.

"Well, yes…" she hedged, fidgeting with the collar of her shirt.

"But sauerkraut with chili, Mrs.-, Miss Holt?" Mildred asked with dismay, addressing what she felt was far more important than word choice, while Laura peered at her nails and Remington studied _her_. _Did_ he know? She wasn't sure that he did, but if he didn't she needed to divert his attention until she had some answers of her own.

"Don't forget the papaya juice, Mildred," Remington offered half-heartedly, still assessing Laura. "Yeesh!" Laura turned and gave him a beatific smile. He sat up a spot straighter, recognizing that particular smile, the one that said she was about to throw him to the wolves for her own amusement.

"Have you asked her yet?" The question seemed innocent enough on the surface but Remington recognized the diversion for what it was.

"Asked me what?" Mildred peeped up.

"No, as a matter of fact I haven't," he answered Laura, in an accusatory tone. "I'd _intended_ to take us all out for a decent meal and ask her then."

"Ask me what?" Mildred repeated, looking to Laura for an answer. Laura fingered her throat and widened her eyes.

"Oh… well… It's not _my_ place to say," she answered, coyly. Remington's jaw twitched, a sign she'd annoyed him right properly. Forcing a smile on his face, he turned to Mildred.

"I was hoping you'd do me the honor of standing for me at our wedding as my… best woman… so to speak," he announced, with a tug of his ear. Mildred's hands flew up and she pressed them against her cheeks. He squirmed where he sat as he watched the older woman's eyes moisten with emotion.

"Me? You want _me_ to stand for you?" she asked in disbelief.

"This wedding of ours is a family affair," Remington replied with a quick smile, hoping to ward off the woman's tears, "And what are you, if not family, eh?" Seeing his discomfort, Mildred visibly collected herself then gave him a sharp, efficient nod.

"Try and keep me away," she accepted.

"Excellent," he grinned, then slid his eyes towards Laura, giving her a look that put her on high alert. "And I'm sure Laura know exactly where to take you tomorrow to find the right attire."

With that, Laura slumped back in her chair. He'd returned fire and had hit his target dead on.

More shopping tomorrow…


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

In the early Sunday morning hours, before dawn fully broken on the horizon, Remington lay on his stomach sleeping soundly with an arm thrown across Laura's waist. She turned her head and glanced at the alarm clock. Six-twelve. It had been a long, restless night of constantly waking then forcing herself back to sleep again. Out of self-defense, even in his sleep, Remington had finally repositioned himself to his stomach, his arm keeping their connection but allowing her to toss and turn at will while he slept.

Sitting up now, she drew her hands through her hair, while turning her head to look at the man still sleeping soundly beside her. An hour or two more of waiting wouldn't change anything, right? She hoped not, because whether or not it would, she'd go mad if she had to wait a second longer.

Slipping from bed, she crossed the room on silent feet and quietly slid open the drawer where she'd tucked the bag with veil, ring and pregnancy test for safe keeping. The rattling of the bag had her glancing quickly towards the bed. Remington lay as she'd left him, still breathing deeply. Grabbing the small cardboard box, she slid closed the drawer, then sequestered herself behind the bathroom door.

* * *

Remington played possum - it was the only apt description of what he'd done, pretending to be sound asleep when first she sat up then slipped from the bed. He'd dared a quick peek through slitted eyes, watching as Laura had opened the drawer and removed the small box. He'd a good idea what was inside the box, and had swallowed hard, wondering briefly if the idea of pending fatherhood might be less daunting than finding out definitively a wee one was on the way.

When the door to the bathroom quietly clicked shut, he opened his eyes fully and rolled to his back, scrubbing at his face with his hands.

The night before at dinner, he'd ordered a bottle of Dom to celebrate their upcoming nuptials. If he wasn't quite certain before the meal that Laura had finally realized she might be pregnant, her behavior at dinner had confirmed it. She'd fidgeted throughout the meal and it had taken a great deal of effort on her part to remain engaged in the recounting of his proposal, for Mildred's sake, along with a recitation of all they'd done and seen thus far while in the city. Even more telling? She'd taken a singular, miniscule sip of her champagne when Mildred had proposed a toast to them, then hadn't touched it again all evening. Even Mildred had noticed something was askance, Laura's eyes flitting to him then immediately away when Mildred inquired if she was okay. She'd pled a long day and exhaustion, which certainly did not mesh with all the tossing and turning she'd done throughout the night.

It had seemed a good idea to turn the tables on her, have a bit of fun with her by feigning ignorance of her possible state, giving her a small taste of what it had been like for him these last weeks. He'd realized the folly of that idea midway through their meal. Although she was, without a doubt, the strongest person he'd ever known, when it came to providence throwing curves that threatened her orderly life, she had a tendency to run, to lash out or to crumble beneath the weight of sudden uncertainty. He'd watched, helplessly, as she fallen apart after Veckmer had leveled her home. He'd borne her fury in the weeks after his foolish attempt to marry Clarissa and their subsequent marriage, instead, on that trawler. And, as God above had laid witness to, not knowing what came next after 'that magical moment' had sent her on the run a pair of times.

Yes, as much as he might have enjoyed having a bit of fun with her to make up for his weeks of waiting on tether hooks, doing so at the risk of her rebuilding the walls it seemed it had taken a lifetime for him to tear down or, God help him, running, simply wasn't worth it.

To that end, he sat up, leaned forward, and wrapping his arms around his bent legs, waited for the bathroom door to open…

* * *

Laura paced the confines of the bathroom, rubbing at her arms with shaking hands. How was it five minutes passed in the blink of an eye when one was doing something enjoyable, but when awaiting answers, time slowed to a near standstill. Taking a deep breath and ringing her hands, she forced herself to walk the length of the bathroom and back again another dozen times, then determined the moment of truth was at hand.

But her feet would no longer cooperate, taking her back down the length of the large bathroom again.

How had she missed it? Granted, it had been _years_ since she'd had to worry about birth control or watching a calendar, but still there was a date circled in her planner, that she'd simply paid no attention to; there was that packet of pills, that she still took daily, and she'd been completely oblivious to the fact that she'd not only begun but had nearly finished the pack without her cycle ever arriving. Her breasts had been tender, she reflected now, for a few days, maybe a week – could it have been two weeks? Looking back now it was possible – but she'd written that off, somewhere in her subconscious, to the pending arrival of her period, as her breasts always ached a bit in the days before. She'd written off some of her clothes growing snug to Remington's good cooking… not to mention her Halloween chocolate session.

It was all so obvious now. How had she missed it? Had she, somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind, known, but had fallen into deep denial? That thought was more troublesome to her than having been blind to all the clues around her. She'd worked hard to learn how to live in the moment, to not get so far ahead of herself that her imagination ran wild, and in imagining the worst, ran, hid, even from herself. If she had known somewhere deep inside, what did that mean?

Did she not want to be a mother? She paused in her steps and stared up at the ceiling to consider the question. _No, that's not the case,_ she concluded. There was, after all, a vast difference between not knowing if you'd ever be a mother and not wishing to be one. Hadn't she even once admitted as much to Frances?

* * *

" _ **Don't you think I'd like to have a family of my own someday? I'm just like any other woman out there, trying to make the pieces fit."**_

* * *

She resumed her pacing.

Had she been secretly worried about Remington's reaction if she was, in fact, pregnant? _No_ , _it's not that,_ she acknowledged. If she knew anything at all about Remington Steele it was that he'd never leave a child of his behind. And if his recent comments were to be believed, he might actually be quite open to the possibilities.

 _Xenos._

The memory brought a much needed smile to her face.

* * *

" _ **Because, Xenos... because from now on everything is new again, eh? Eh? Just think of the possibilities."**_

* * *

 _Be bold, Laura._

With that thought, she surged forward and picked up the little plastic wand….

* * *

 _Bloody torture, that's what this is_ , Remington silently proclaimed, his intent blue gaze leveled on the bathroom door. The twenty-something days of wondering had been a veritable picnic compared to the last twenty minutes.

 _How long can one of those bloody tests take?_

Maybe that little box she'd stowed away hadn't been a pregnancy test at all. Perhaps she was behind those doors right now, doing nothing more than consuming a box of expensive chocolates that she'd picked up on her shopping trip today. Or maybe it was a wedding gift for him, that she was agonizing over whether to give to him or not. Or a new manicure set, and at this very moment she was filing her nails, buffing them, putting a bloody fresh coat of clear gloss over them. _Buggering hell._ For all he knew, it had been a box of tampons and she'd been nothing more than late straight along.

 _Very, very late._

He resisted the impulse to bolt from the bed then sling open that bathroom door, shouting…

"Aha!"

The only thing that kept him still was his fear that in doing so he'd make a bloody fool of himself.

His eyes left the door to peer down at himself. He grimaced, returning his eyes to the door. As if he weren't already in danger of doing exactly that, sitting here as he was, perspiration beading his brow, his hands unable to stay still, dragging through his hair, rubbing at his neck, his fingers sweeping over his mouth. If it wasn't a pregnancy test, how was he to explain his current state when…

He froze, when he heard the soft snick of the lock on the bathroom door disengaging…

* * *

Laura turned off the bathroom light, then stepped into the bedroom. She stilled, blinking in surprise, when she saw Remington sitting up in bed, behaving more nervously than he had when he'd thought he might go down for the murder of Norman Keyes. She watched, in the early morning light, as his eyes flickered from her face to the piece of paper and plastic wand she held in her hand then back to her face again. Unconsciously, he licked his lips and drew a hand through his hair, speaking of how truly anxious he was.

So he had known, or at least suspected.

She kept her face a mask of icy calm. In her heart, she believed she knew how he'd react to the news, but her head - her damnable head that had reminded her for years loving Remington Steele would only end up with her, alone, nursing a broken heart – had its doubts.

With a slow, silent intake of breath, and an unconscious pat of her stomach, she crossed the room and slowly sank down to sit next to him on the side of the bed. Silently, she handed him the paper and the wand.

Her eyes fell from his face to stare at his neck, watching his Adam's apple bob up and down as his hand closed around the offerings. Only when her hand was empty, did she lift her eyes to study his face as he put the pieces together. But, the part of her who believed he'd find this to be exceptionally good news quickly lost its patience.

"I'm pregnant," she blurted out, then felt the blush that spread across her skin even as she held her breath waiting for his reply.

The quiet, joyous smile he gave her would have put any sunrise to shame.

"I know," he answered with quiet confidence. Setting aside the wand and paper, he brushed her hair over her shoulder and cradled her face in his hands. "How do you feel about that?"

"Confused how I missed it," she admitted, then with a nod of her head confessed, "Terrified." She blinked several times, then a slow smile lifted her lips. "Happy." He searched her brown eyes.

"You're sure?" She reached up and covered the hands on her cheeks with hers.

"Just think of the possibilities," she offered the words that knew would assure him.

His reaction was instantaneous. Yanking her to him, he wrapped his arms around her, latching his mouth over hers as he lowered her to the bed. Cradling her head in one hand, his lips devoured hers, his tongue plundered, as his other hand quickly released the buttons on her shirt, seeking flesh. In her heart, that part of her which had believed he'd embrace the news, she'd anticipated this would be his reaction, but, still, the irony was not lost on her and the more she dwelled on it, the funnier it became. She was unable to stop her mirth as it bubbled past her lips.

His hand stilled and he reared his head back to look down at her with a question on his face.

"You do realize this…" she indicated with a hand her askance shirt and his body partially reclined over hers "…Is what caused _that_ …" she pointed to the nightstand where the test lay "Right?" With a waggle of his brows, he released the last button and brushed aside the material of her shirt.

"It's a good thing superfetation is not likely then, isn't it?" he mused, leaning down and dropping a kiss on her lips then trailing a string along her jaw. "Because I'm not stopping now."

Her back arched off the bed and her hands dove into his hair when his mouth closed around the sensitive peak of a breast.

"You better not," she gasped.

This time it was he who was unable to contain his laughter.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Chapter 15 will be the final chapter of this story, and we will immediately return to Holting Back once published.**_


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

The four days that followed were packed between the various activities that were part of Abigail's vacation package and those that came part and parcel with matrimonial preparations. With Laura's assistance, Mildred had found a dress that tickled her fancy as it mimicked in design the tuxes the men would be wearing yet would complement the attire of Laura's attendants. The bridal party's gifts were picked up, her gown tried on again then – finally – taken back to the hotel, dyed shoes were in her sister's hands, bouquets and boutonnieres were selected and scheduled for delivery and minister and chapel were confirmed.

The only real surprise came on the eve of their wedding, and it was a doozy.

In lieu of the traditional rehearsal dinner, Abigail had insisted on a family dinner out. Recommended by the concierge, she'd made reservations at Gargiulo's. Established in 1907, Gargiulo's was both a Coney Island staple and a rarity in that the restaurant served exquisite Italian fare upon white table cloths and had a strict dress code policy or jacket and tie for men and proper dinner attire for women – unheard of in the casual community of Coney Island.

As advertised, the food had been beyond criticism. Appetizers of pan-seared mozzarella with Portobello mushrooms and sundried tomatoes had preceded Arugala salads, which were then followed by Veal Marsala for Remington and Roasted Lamb Chops on Mesclun salad for Laura – all of it accompanied by a rich bodied, well-rounded Chianti. The veal had been tender, the lamb chops succulent and the pasta cooked to the perfect consistency. Small sips to accompany toasts coupled with a nifty bit of sleight of hand by Remington made it appear Laura was enjoying her wine with the rest of the party, when it fact, the chilled goblet of water was her drink du jour.

The notion of announcing their news had quickly been quashed after Remington had suggested as much. There was the practical reason for doing so, of course: All they had confirming the pregnancy at this point was a late cycle – or two – and a little plastic wand. Better to wait, Laura had rationalized, until she'd seen a doctor. Then there was her mother. Abigail would, of course, immediately assume their forthcoming wedding was because of the pregnancy and the inevitable comments that followed would put a damper over both wedding and the news they were having a child.

But there was one reason that trumped all others, as she shared with Remington the night following that pregnancy test…

"I want this to be just ours for now," she told him, standing to pace their bedroom. "Once we make the announcement we're going to be inundated with well-meaning advice, suggestions and, undoubtedly, constant questions. Have you chosen names yet? Are you going to find out the sex before it's born?" She flung out her arms. "Hell, are you going to breast or bottle feed!?" She deflated before his eyes. "I don't want that. I don't want to be… influenced by the opinions of others. These are _our_ choices, _our_ decisions, for _our_ child."

If she had worried he'd be disappointed by her reticence to make an announcement, the exercise would have been fruitless, for if the way he'd come to gather her in his arms, resting his cheek against her head while rendered uncharacteristically speechless was an indication, he was inordinately pleased by what she'd said.

And in the days since, he'd found any number of reasons to brush a hand against hers, to tuck back a strand of stray hair, as if reminding her they had a secret that he considered splendid between them.

That very same man reached out now and squeezed her hand, indicating, with a pointed slant of his eyes across the table, her mother.

"I'm sorry, Mother, what did you say?" Abigail's mouth pinched with disapproval.

" _I asked,_ " she emphasized the words, "If you have already packed a bag for tonight." Laura's brows knitted together, wondering how long she'd been lost in thought. A glance at Remington, who lifted his brows in question told her he was a puzzled as she.

"A bag?" she asked. Abigail huffed in exasperation.

"You're going to need nightclothes and whatever you plan to wear tomorrow, not to mention your cosmetics, brush—"

"For what?" Laura interrupted to ask.

"Well, you'll be staying with Frances tonight, of course, and Donald will stay in the suite with Remington." Laura blinked a pair of times, then shook her head firmly.

"No." A single syllable declaration was said with what Remington recognized as absolute finality. Abigail and Frances were not as perceptive, and the more they persisted, the more Laura had dug in her heels.

"Oh, for Heaven's sake," Abigail finally huffed. "Do I really need to remind you it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding?" Inexplicably, the comment had brought to mind that wedding upon the trawler. So seeing her before the wedding was bad luck, huh? You have to wonder what those wives' tales would say about watching your groom trying to marry someone else only hours before you wed him. She couldn't help her short, soft laugh. If that hadn't caused bad luck to befall them...

"That certainly hasn't proven to be the case so far."

"Lau-ra," Remington leaned in next to her ear and muttered in a warning tone, while squeezing her hand firmly. Her head snapped up and she took in Mildred's rounded mouth and widened eyes, then Abigail's narrowed ones. _Oh God, did I say that aloud?_

"What does that mean, Laura?" Abigail's question confirmed that she had.

"Frances saw Donald before the wedding and they're still happily married after fifteen years." Never had she been so thankful that being a detective forced one to think quickly on their feet. She gave Frances an apologetic look. She'd thrown her sister under the bus – maybe not so unintentionally given Frances had been doggedly determined to have their surprise sleepover.

"Is that true, Frances?" Abigail immediately pounced on the revelation.

"The funny thing about superstitions," Remington stepped in to soothe ruffled feathers, "Is that they don't translate across all cultures. For example, the Irish believe that the sun coming to rest upon the bride means good fortune, whereas the Hindu believe it is rain that brings good tidings."

"Is that so?" Abigail asked, positively fascinated.

"Mmm. And the British believe should a bride find a spider in her dress, it bears well upon the marriage."

"A spider?" Frances shuddered. Remington grinned in answer.

"Yes, and I can't imagine a single bride who'd wish to find a spider hiding amongst all those layers of satin and lace, can you?" Frances shook her head with vigor. "So I'm sure you can understand why Laura and I don't put stock into superstition." He reached for Laura's hand, and lifted it to brush his lips across her knuckles. "We prefer to make our own luck, don't we?"

"Why didn't you just say so, dear?" Abigail wondered, earning a tight smile from Laura.

In the end, it hadn't mattered how they'd managed it, but that they'd ended up in their suite, blessedly alone.

Time alone that they much needed, Remington acknowledged.

Much as Laura had discovered during their years together that Remington required touch to center him during times of turmoil, he'd uncovered the nuances of Laura Holt. A Laura who was put out with him required space to pace, to gesticulate wildly with those graceful arms of hers, whereas a stressed or worried Laura would melt into an offered embrace and carried all her woes in the form of knots in shoulders, neck and back. Deny it though she might, nearness was the key to a positive outcome whenever Laura was troubled.

And troubled, right now, she was, as she tried to sort out how the puzzle pieces that accompanied recent changes would fit into her previously, neatly ordered vision of her future. On a number of occasions over the last trio of days, he'd found Laura lost in thought, her brow often furrowed, sometimes fingering her throat, while at other times absently stroking her stomach. He could hardly blame her as, if he were honest, he, too, was working on assimilating all the events of days past: A marriage that was never mean to be legal but was; an engagement; a child on the way; and, tomorrow, a second wedding so much different than the first. Exciting times, to be sure, but each of those things running fully contrary to his lifelong vow to never find himself bound to a single person or place.

The long and short of it was, he needed time alone with her as much as she needed that time with him, he suspected.

To that end, he'd drawn them a hot bath when they'd returned to the suite, infusing the water with Laura's favorite cream bubble bath. It had taken thirty minutes to ferret out each of her knotted muscles as he kept up a running dialogue of small talk, and then she'd at last fully inclined against him with a relieved sigh and a gentle stroke of her fingertips along his jaw in silent gratitude. It wasn't until they'd tumbled into bed and she settled herself against him – head nestled against his shoulder, leg slung over his and her fingers dancing through the thick matting of hair on his chest – that he wet suddenly parched lips and dared voice his darkest fear…

"Tell me, Laura, am I to be the George Kittredge to your Tracy Lord tomorrow?" The question brought a soft smile to her lips: He knew her all too well. Shifting, she laid bent arm over his chest and rested her chin upon it, looking up at him.

"How could you be, when you're Dexter Haven to my Tracy Lord?" she proposed quietly, then dropping her eyes for a moment looked back at him again. "Although the thought of hopping the next plane to anywhere has crossed my mind on more than one occasion," she admitted. Closing his eyes, he nodded his head while humming his agreement.

"Mine as well," he confessed. Her brows lifted and eyes widened, surprised by the forthright admission.

"It has?" she asked, her shock reflected in her voice.

"Mmmm. I'm bloody well terrified, to tell you the truth." Rather than alarming her, she found comfort in his honesty.

"So why haven't you?" He laughed ruefully while tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Because I discovered in the summer of '85 that no matter the person I once was, the person I am now doesn't function well or happily without you." Pressing up on her arm against his chest, she cupped his cheek in her free hand.

"I understand."

And the wonder of it all was that she did.

Michael O'Leary, Douglas Quintaine, Paul Fabrini, Richard Blaine, Johnny Todd, or Harry – she'd peeled back the layers of all the personas he'd taken on across the years, until she'd found the man he truly was beneath them all… And, miraculously, loved that man, imperfections and all.

With a hand held against the back of her head, he pressed two hard kisses to her lips, then wrapped an arm around her slim frame when she settled back against him. Closing his eyes, he focused on the feeling of her breath against his chest.

But, maybe it wasn't such a miracle, after all. There had been a time that he'd given providence its due for arranging their paths to cross as it had, but the fact was: He'd done the work. He wasn't the only one that had buried the essence of himself after years of abandonment and betrayal had taught him to trust no one: Laura had as well. He'd spent years of his life breaking through the walls she'd built to protect herself – walls of anger, fear and insecurity – until she'd at last let him in.

Maybe that was wherein the miracle lay: That in each other they'd recognized something so valuable, so rare, that they'd gone all in, despite a lifetime of lessons telling them the odds were firmly stacked against them.

As the doors to the atrium of a small chapel in Times Square opened neither the why nor how they'd gotten here mattered - All that mattered was the young woman who appeared in the opening. Near on five-and-a-half years since first they'd met , and he was still unable to peel his eyes away from her whenever she was in the same room as he. She simultaneously stole his breath and made his heart skip a beat…

Not because she looked so very Hepburnesque in the stunning gown she'd chosen – not Katherine Hepburn whose Tracy Lord had left George Kittredge at the altar in _Philadelphia Story_ but Audrey of _Charade_ whose Regina Lampert had thoroughly bewitched Cary Grant's Peter Joshua, for Audrey and Laura shared the same petite stature, somewhat elfin features, natural grace and effortless poise that so few possessed.

He'd never seen her as just flesh. Flesh he admired, desired… burned for, yes. But never as _just_ flesh.

No, it wasn't the flesh that made his heart skip a beat or stole his breath away. It was in how her gaze faced the floor as she stepped with Donald through the door. It was in the pinch of her brow as she even now worried what this would mean for her, for them. It was in the way her lashes fluttered upwards, and her eyes sought him. It was in the way, when her eyes found him there - waiting for her as he had for so many years – that she pulled herself up to her full height, squared her shoulders and tipped up her chin, bestowing on him a smile full of daring.

That was his Laura, with her periodic hesitations and occasionally paralyzing fears, when faced with the inevitable, she didn't raise the white flag and surrender… she conquered.

And conquered him, she had, this woman to whom he'd once so vainly boasted

* * *

" _ **I'm a man who enjoys impossible challenges."**_

* * *

He'd been the impossible challenge, this blue-eyed Irishman of hers, Laura acknowledged as she took slow, metered steps down the aisle towards him. But as she'd once predicted…

* * *

" _ **But can a man who has that many surprises up his sleeve be worth all the effort?"**_

 _ **"I think so."**_

* * *

…he'd been worth the effort.

He'd arrived in her life a consummate conman, charming cheat, and licentious lothario, who'd swiped her most precious creation from her: The role of the enigmatic, non-existent, Remington Steele. Yet, despite the complicated manner in which their association had begun, she'd sensed something in him, something…

More.

And she'd been right, but even the remarkable mind that had conjured up the great detective Remington Steele from whole cloth, couldn't have conceived what she'd find as he'd begun to shed the roles he'd wielded like armor. The simple fact was he had the kindest, most genuine heart she'd ever known; a heart that all the loss, abandonment and abuse he'd seen the first decade and a half of his life had been unable to tarnish. He called few 'friend' but those he did he was unfailing in his loyalty to – to the point of risking his own life and the life he'd been building for himself in order to protect them or mete out justice.

And, as it had turned out, he was far more Cary Grant than he was Humphrey Bogart, the man he'd once emulated with all those passports. Too handsome for his own good, intelligent, creative, with a quick wit and courtly mannerisms that had been shockingly very much of a part who he was rather than an act. She'd been attracted to him from the start and had never denied it. But none of it would have mattered had he truly been the cad he'd once seemed to be.

Instead, as he'd slowly revealed himself to her, she'd found herself getting in too deep, deep enough to put up some armor of her own before she found herself alone and heartbroken. Much as he'd shared the evening before, the Summer of '85 had been a turning point for her as well. She'd felt the loss of him keenly and was quick to realize her work – unlike after Wilson had walked out on her – was not enough to fill the void. Her life had no longer made sense without him, anymore than his without her.

Which is why, in spite of all that had come in the hours before, one day in May nearly two years before, she'd married him on that fishing trawler. Wounded and furious, she still hadn't been able to let him go.

Her eyes still holding Remington's she came to a stop beside him, barely registering the minister's first words or Donald's response.

Her eyes left Remington's only when Donald joined their hands together, and Remington promptly drew her hand upwards, then with an insouciant lift of a single brow, brushed his lips over her knuckles - a poignant reminder of how far they'd come since the first time he'd done thus.

Then, before she knew it, he took both her hands in his, and they stood facing one another.

"I, Remington Steele…"

* * *

" _ **You, a renowned private investigator. It's mind boggling."**_

 _ **"Actually, I find it rather novel, helping people."**_

* * *

"…Take you, Laura Holt…"

* * *

" _ **But it would be unworthy of Remington Steele if he didn't single out his most able and most valued associate. Truly, the woman behind the man, Miss Laura Holt."**_

* * *

"…To be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times…

* * *

 _ **"**_ _ **Case closed. You in my arms. What more could I ask for?"**_

* * *

"…And in bad…"

* * *

" **Shh. Shh-shh-shh, Laura. It's okay** _ **."**_

* * *

"…In sickness…"

* * *

" _ **Time for my medication. And please, Laura, don't, under any circumstances come to my apartment. One of us has to stay healthy."**_

* * *

"…And in health."

* * *

" _ **In fact, at the moment, there's a long legged field darter that's downright riveting."**_

* * *

"I will love and honor you…" Remington raised his brows and looked at her with honest sincerity shining in his blue eyes, "… _all_ … the days of my life."

"Laura, if you'll repeat after me," the minister directed.

"I, Laura Holt…"

* * *

" _ **Quite a busy office with so many secretaries."**_

 _ **"I'm a licensed private investigator, Mr.—"**_

* * *

"…Take you, Remington Steele—"

* * *

 _ **"What did you want me to say? I'm sorry Mr. Quarry, you're wrong. Remington Steele can't help you because there is no Remington Steele?"**_

* * *

"…To be my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times…"

* * *

 _ **"Rustic setting, not a single word about work. The food, the wine, tons of fresh air. And lots and lots of running."**_

* * *

"…and in bad…"

* * *

" _ **Don't worry. I won't let anyone harm Remington Steele. Yours, mine or ours."**_

* * *

"…In sickness…"

* * *

" _ **Dust, pollen… hay fever."**_

* * *

"…And in health…"

* * *

 _ **"I'm competing in a triathlon tomorrow."**_

* * *

"…I will love you and honor you all the days of my life."

A bit reflective over the vows they'd just exchanged and lost in thoughts of the road that had brought them here, the start of the blessing and giving of rings would remain always hazy to them. But the ending? It would forever be seared into their memories.

"Remington, repeat after me," the minister directed. "Laura, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity." Remington wet his lips, and holding Laura's left hand in his, he held her ring in the fingers of his right hand.

"Laura, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity," he repeated, then slipped the ring over her slender finger.

"Laura, do you have a ring for Remington?"

"I do," she confirmed quietly, as she turned towards Frances and held out her hand. When she turned to face Remington again, she took in his goofy grin, the delight in his eyes and the way he shifted slightly from foot-to-foot, all attesting to how pleased he was that she intended to bestow on him physical proof of their joining.

"Repeat after me…"

"Remington, receive this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity," she told him, somberly, as she slid the ring over his fingers.

And it is here that their memories would once again turn hazy. They were oblivious as the minister offered a prayer of blessing for their union, instead communicating silently as they'd long been accustomed to doing.

His chuffed grin and the mischievous sparkle in his eyes. _Well, I guess we've gone and done it now._

She widened her eyes and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. _Yes, I guess we have_.

His smile changed to one of smug satisfaction. Eyes full of admonition narrowed and she pursed her lips. _Your head's swelling. You haven't won anything._

His eyes moved from her left hand to his, then he lifted a single, impertinent brow. _Haven't I?_

Her shoulder sagged ever so slightly, her lips parted on a quiet sigh and her eyes flickered away from his. _Now what?_

His hand squeezed hers, drawing her eyes back to him. He purposefully skimmed his eyes down her petite frame, then waggled a pair of brows at her. _Don't you know._

She rolled her eyes. _Stop that. You know what I mean._

"Family and friends," the minister's voice broke into their 'conversation', "It is my honor to present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Remington Steele." As a smattering of applause broke out, the minister held up his hand. "I nearly forgot," he announced when the applause quieted, "Remington, you may kiss the bride."

"Mmm, my pleasure," Remington replied, drawing Laura into his arms and gathering her close. Unbeknownst to her, he consulted his watch behind her back, much as he once had on the fishing trawler of their first wedding, albeit for very different reasons. For years, Laura had been more than happy to point out how his schemes had a tendency to fall apart, but it seemed, at last, one of his gambits would play out flawlessly. If… He turned his head to look at the minister. "Do we have to do this here to make things... official?" he asked, drawing a look of confusion from the minister, and a look of suspicion from Laura.

"What are you doing?!" she demanded to know in an exasperated whisper. He glanced at his watch again, growing antsy.

"Do we?" he repeated.

"Well, no, although—"

"Come with me," Remington insisted. Capturing Laura's hand in his, he tugged her towards the chapel's doors. With no other choice at hand, she matched him step-for-step down the aisle.

"Ladies and gentleman, Mr. and Mrs. Remington Steele," the minister announced again, holding out a hand in the direction of the departing couple.

"Have you completely taken leave of your senses?" Laura hissed at Remington's side, while keeping a smile plastered on her face, lest anyone see.

"A momentous occasion such as this demands a… worthy setting… don't you agree?" His words harkened back to the first days after their _first_ wedding, as they'd stood in a Mexican jungle.

* * *

 _ **"With all due respect to the Hotel Del Amor, we've waited far too long not to capture the moment in a more- worthy setting."**_

* * *

She remembered all too well how that had worked out: Them, separated in a jungle; the arrival of Anthony Roselli into their lives; the 'murder' of Norman Keyes; Remington in jail, charged with that murder; and, all the while, anger and hurt swirling around them, threatening to destroy the few fragile strands of their relationship that had been left through it all. Her steps slowed to nearly a standstill.

"A bit of trust, Laura, that's all I ask." She looked from him, to the doors, then back at him. It was a testament to how far they'd come, when she squared her shoulders and offered a single nod of her head.

"Alright."

They half-sprinted, hand-in-hand to the doors, then pushed through them, stepping out of the chapel and into the reveler filled streets of Times Squares, oblivious to their wedding party spilling out the doors behind them. There, he gathered her in his arms again, and as the crowd began the countdown to midnight…

"Ten… nine… eight..."

...together, they watched as the infamous Times Square ball slowly completed its descent, heralding the arrival of a new year. Wrapping her arms around Remington's neck, Laura's fingers toyed with the hair brushing the back of his collar.

"… seven… six…"

"Trying for a bit of romance?" she suggested in a pleased murmur. Cupping the back of her head in his hand, he lifted a pair of bows.

"…five… four…"

"With you?" he asked. "Always," he whispered, leaning in until his lips hovered just over hers.

"…three… two…"

His lips covered hers, and he kissed her with the tender ardor that never failed to leave her heart beating a little faster, toes curling and her eyes a bit dazed. A soft smile lit her face when their lips parted.

"Happy New Years, Mr. Steele," she offered quietly, palming his cheek in her left hand. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled down at her.

"Happy New Years… _Mrs. Steele._ "

With a quick buss to her forehead, they turned as one to accept the glad tidings of their family.

 _Just think of the possibilities._


End file.
